•   «^*j' 


GIFT  OF 
John  H,   Mee 


«#  4t 


..  .m»^s 


•• 'Wt^^yVM-- '■.•:!' V'^- 


..  ••  •  '..v. 


THE    COMEDY   OE  HUMAN  LIEE 
By   H.  DE   BALZAC 


SCENES    FROM    PRIVATE    LIFE 


FAME  AND  SORROW 

(LA    MAISON    DU    CHAT-QUI-PELOTE) 


BALZAC'S     NOVELS. 

Translated  by  Miss  K.  P.  Wormeley. 


Already  Published: 
PERE     GORIOT. 
DUCHESSE     DE     LANGEAIS. 
RISE  AND   FALL    OF  CESAR 

BIROTTEAU. 
EUGENIE     GRANDET. 
COUSIN     PONS. 
THE     COUNTRY     DOCTOR. 
THE     TWO     BROTHERS. 
THE    ALKAHEST. 
MODESTE     MIGNON. 
THE   MAGIC    SKIN. 
COUSIN     BETTE. 
LOUIS     LAMBERT. 
BUREAUCRACY. 
SERAPHITA. 
SONS    OF    THE    SOIL. 
FAME    AND    SORROW. 


ROBERTS    BROTHERS,    Publishers, 
BOSTON. 


HONORH    DE    BAt'ZAC 

TRANSLATED     BY 

KATHARINE    PRESCOTT    WORMELEY 


FAME  AND   SORROW 

WITH 

COLONEL    CHABERT,    THE    ATHEIST'S    MASS, 

LA   GRANDE    BRETfeCHE,    THE   PURSE, 

LA    GRENADIERE 


ROBERTS     BROTHERS 

3     SOMERSET     STREET 

BOSTON 
1890 


GIFT  OF  ^Li-i' 

Copyright,  1890, 
By  Roberts  Brothers. 


All  rights  reserved. 


®nt6frBitg  l^rrss : 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


CONTENTS. 


Fame  and  Sorrow 1 

Colonel  Chabert 93 

The  Atheist's  Mass 193 

La  Grande  Bketeche 221 

The  Purse 255 

La  Grenadiere 303 


'96244 


FAME  AND  SORROW.' 


Dedicated  to  Mademoiselle  Marie  de  Montueau. 


About  the  middle  of  the  rue  Saint-Denis,  and  near 
the  corner  of  the  rue  du  Petit-Lion,  there  stood,  not 
veiy  long  ago,  one  of  those  precious  houses  which 
enable  historians  to  reconstruct  b}-  analogy  the  Paris 
of  former  times.  The  frowning  walls  of  this  shabby 
building  seemed  to  have  been  originally  decorated  by 
hieroglj'phics.  What  other  name  could  a  passing  ob- 
server give  to  the  X's  and  the  Y's  traced  upon  them 
b}'  the  transversal  or  diagonal  pieces  of  wood  which 
showed  under  the  stucco  through  a  number  of  little 
parallel  cracks?  Evidently,  the  jar  of  each  passing 
carriage  shook  the  old  joists  in  their  plaster  coatings. 

1  This  was  the  title  (Gloire  et  Malheur)  under  which  the  story 
was  first  published  in  1830.  The  name  was  clianged  in  1842  to 
La  Maison  du  Chat-qui-pelote.  The  awkwardness  of  the  title  in 
English  (The  House  of  the  Cat-playing-ball)  leads  the  translator 
to  use  the  original  name  given  by  Balzac. 

1 


2  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

The  venerable  buildiBg  1ya,s  covered  with  a  triangular 
roof,  a  shape  of  which  no  specimen  will  exist  much 
longer  in  Paris.  This  roof,  twisted  out  of  line  by  the 
inclemencies  of  Parisian  weather,  overhung  the  street 
hy  about  three  feet,  as  much  to  protect  the  door-steps 
from  the  rain  as  to  shelter  the  wall  of  the  garret  and  its 
frameless  window ;  for  the  upper  storey  was  built  of 
planks,  nailed  one  above  the  other  like  slates,  so  as  not 
to  overweight  the  construction  beneath  it. 

On  a  rainy  morning  in  the  month  of  March,  a  young 
man  carefully  wrapped  in  a  cloak  was  standing  beneath 
the  awning  of  a  shop  directly  opposite  to  the  old  build- 
ing, which  he  examined  with  the  enthusiasm  of  an  archae- 
ologist ;  for,  in  truth,  this  relic  of  the  bourgeoisie  of  the 
sixteenth  century  presented  more  than  one  problem  to 
the  mind  of  an  intelligent  observer.  Each  storey  had 
its  own  peculiarity  ;  on  the  first  were  four  long,  narrow 
windows  very  close  to  each  other,  with  wooden  squares 
in  place  of  glass  panes  to  the  lower  sash,  so  as  to  give 
the  uncertain  light  by  which  a  clever  shopkeeper  can 
make  his  goods  match  any  color  desired  by  a  customer.  ' 

The  young  man  seemed  to  disdain  this  important  part 
of  the  house ;  in  fact,  his  eyes  had  not  even  rested  on 
it.  The  windows  of  the  second  floor,  the  raised  outer 
blinds  of  which  gave  to  sight  through  large  panes  of 
Bohemian  glass  small  muslin  curtains  of  a  reddish  tinge, 
seemed  also  not  to  interest  him.     His  attention  centred 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  3 

on  the  third  storcj-,  —  on  certain  humble  winclows,  the 
wooden  frames  of  which  deserved  a  place  in  tlic  Con- 
servatory of  Arts  and  Manufactures  as  specimens  of 
the  earliest  efforts  of  French  joinery.  These  windows 
had  little  panes  of  so  green  a  glass  that  had  he  not 
possessed  an  excellent  pair  of  ej-es  the  young  man  could 
not  have  seen  the  blue-checked  curtains  which  hid  the 
mysteries  of  the  room  from  the  gaze  of  the  profane. 
Occasionally  the  watcher,  as  if  tired  of  his  abortive 
watch,  or  annoyed  by  the  silence  in  which  the  house 
was  buried,  dropped  his  e3'es  to  the  lower  regions.  An 
involuntar}^  smile  would  then  flicker  on  his  lips  as  he 
glanced  at  the  shop,  where,  indeed,  were  certain  things 
that  were  laughable  enough. 

A  formidable  beam  of  wood,  resting  horizontally  on 
four  pillars  which  appeared  to  bend  under  the  weight  of 
the  decrepit  house,  had  received  as  many  and  diverse 
coats  of  paint  as  the  cheek  of  an  old  duchess.  At  the 
middle  of  this  large  beam,  slightly  carved,  was  an  an- 
tique picture  representing  a  cat  playing  ball.  It  was 
this  work  of  art  which  made  the  young  man  smile  ;  and 
it  must  be  owned  that  not  the  cleverest  of  modern 
painters  could  have  invented  a  more  comical  design. 
The  animal  held  in  one  of  its  fore-paws  a  racket  as  big 
as  itself,  and  stood  up  on  its  hind  paws  to  aim  at  an 
enormous  ball  which  a  gentleman  in  a  brocaded  coat  was 
tossing  to  it.     Design,  colors,  and  accessories  were  all 


4  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

treated  in  a  way  to  inspire  a  belief  tliat  the  artist  meant 
to  malie  fun  of  both  merchant  and  customers.  Time, 
by  altering  the  crude  colors,  had  made  the  picture  still 
more  grotesque  through  certain  bewildering  changes, 
which  could  not  fail  to  trouble  a  conscientious  observer. 
For  instance,  the  ringed  tail  of  the  cat  was  cut  apart  in 
such  a  way  that  the  end  might  be  taken  for  an  onlooker, 
so  thick,  long,  and  well-covered  were  the  tails  of  the 
cats  of  our  ancestors.  To  the  right  of  the  picture,  on  a 
blue  ground,  which  imperfectly'  concealed  the  rotten 
wood,  could  be  read  the  name  "  Guillaume,"  and  to  the 
left  the  words  "  Successor  to  the  Sieur  Chevrel." 

Sun  and  rain  had  tarnished  or  washed  off  the  greater 
part  of  the  gilding  parsimoniousl}^  bestowed  upon  the 
letters  of  this  inscription,  in  which  U's  stood  in  place  of 
V's,  and  vice  versa,  according  to  the  rules  of  our  ancient 
orthography.  In  order  to  bring  down  the  pride  of  those 
who  think  the  world  is  daily  growing  cleverer  and  wit- 
tier, and  that  modern  claptrappery  surpasses  everything 
that  went  before,  it  may  be  well  to  mention  here  that 
such  signs  as  these,  the  etymology  of  which  seems  fan- 
tastic to  man}'  Parisian  merchants,  are  realh'  the  dead 
pictures  of  once  living  realities  by  which  our  lively'  an- 
cestors contrived  to  entice  customers  into  their  shops. 
Thus,  "The  Sow  a-Spinning,"  "The  Green  Monkey," 
and  so  forth,  were  live  animals  in  cages,  whose  clever 
tricks  delighted  the  passers  in  the  streets,  and  whose 


Fame  and  Sorroiv.  6 

training  proved  the  patience  of  the  shopkeepers  of  the 
fifteenth  century.  Such  natural  curiosities  brought  bet- 
ter profits  to  their  fortunate  possessors  than  the  fine 
names,  "Good  Faith,"  "Providence,"  "The  Grace  of 
God,"  "The  Decapitation  of  Saint  John  the  Baptist," 
which  are  still  to  be  seen  in  that  same  rue  Saint-Denis. 

However,  our  unknown  young  man  was  certainly  not 
stationed  there  to  admire  the  cat,  which  a  moment's 
notice  sufficed  to  fix  in  his  memory.  He  too,  had  his 
peculiarities.  His  cloak,  flung  about  him  after  the  man- 
ner of  antique  drapery,  left  to  sight  the  elegant  shoes 
and  white  silk  stockings  on  his  feet,  which  were  all  the 
more  noticeable  in  the  midst  of  that  Parisian  mud, 
several  spots  of  which  seemed  to  prove  the  haste  with 
which  he  had  made  his  wa}-  there.  No  doubt  he  had 
just  left  a  wedding  or  a  ball,  for  at  this  early  hour  of 
the  morning  he  held  a  pair  of  white  gloves  in  his  hand, 
and  the  curls  of  his  black  hair,  now  uncurled  and  tum- 
bling on  his  shoulders,  seemed  to  indicate  a  st^-le  of 
wearing  it  called  "  Caracalla,"  a  fashion  set  b}-  the 
painter  David  and  his  school,  and  followed  with  that 
devotion  to  Greek  and  Roman  ideas  and  shapes  which 
marked  the  earlier  jears  of  this  centur}'. 

In  spite  of  the  noise  made  by  a  few  belated  kitchen- 
gardeners  as  they  gallopped  their  cartloads  of  produce 
to  the  markets,  the  street  was  still  hushed  in  that  calm 
stillness  the  magic  of  which  is  known  only  to  those  who 


>( 


6  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

wander  about  a  deserted  Paris  at  the  hour  when  its 

nightly  uproar  ceases  for  a  moment,  then  reawakes  and  i  i 

is  heard  in  the  distance  Uke  the  voice  of  Ocean. 

This  singular  young  man  must  have  seemed  as  odd 
to  the  shopkeepers  of  the  Cat-playing-ball  as  the  Cat- 
playing-ball  seemed  to  him.  A  dazzling  white  cravat 
made  his  harassed  white  face  even  paler  than  it  really 
was.  The  fire  of  his  black  eyes,  that  were  sparkling 
and  yet  gloom}',  harmonized  with  the  eccentric  outline 
of  his  face,  and  with  his  large,  sinuous  mouth,  which  con- 
tracted when  he  smiled.  His  forehead,  wrinkling  under 
any  violent  annoj'ance,  had  something  fatal  about  it. 
The  forehead  is  surely  the  most  prophetic  feature  of  the 
face.  When  that  of  this  imknown  young  man  expressed 
anger,  the  creases  which  immediatelj'  showed  upon  it 
excited  a  sort  of  terror,  through  the  force  of  passion 
which  brought  them  there ;  but  the  moment  he  recov- 
ered his  calmness,  so  easil}'  shaken,  the  brow  shone 
with  a  luminous  grace  that  embellished  the  whole  coun- 
tenance, where  joy  and  grief,  love,  anger,  and  disdain 
flashed  forth  in  so  communicative  a  way  that  the  coldest 
of  men  was  inevitabl}-  impressed. 

It  chanced  that  the  man  was  so  anno5'ed  at  the  mo- 
ment when  some  one  hastih'  opened  the  garret  window, 
that  he  missed  seeing  three  joyous  faces,  plump,  and 
white,  and  ros}*,  but  also  as  commonplace  as  those  given 
to  the  statues  of  Commerce  on  public  buildings.     These 


Fame  and  Sorroiv.  7 

three  heads  framed  by  the  open  window,  recalled  the 
puffy  angel  faces  scattered  among  the  clouds,  which 
usuall}^  accompany  the  Eternal  Father.  The  appren- 
tices were  inhaling  the  emanations  from  the  street  with 
an  eagerness  which  showed  how  hot  and  mephitic  the 
atmosphere  of  their  garret  must  have  been.  The  elder 
of  the  three  clerks,  after  pointing  out  to  his  companions 
the  stranger  in  the  street,  disappeared  for  a  moment 
and  then  returned,  holding  in  his  hand  an  instrument 
whose  inflexible  metal  has  lately  been  replaced  by  sup- 
ple leather.  Thereupon  a  mischievous  expression  came 
upon  all  three  faces  as  they  looked  at  the  singular  watch- 
er, while  the  elder  proceeded  to  shower  him  with  a  fine 
white  rain,  the  odor  of  which  proved  that  three  chins 
had  just  been  shaved.  Standing  back  in  the  room  on 
tiptoe  to  enjoy  their  victim's  rage,  the  clerks  all  stopped 
laughing  when  they  saw  the  careless  disdain  with  which 
the  3'oung  man  shook  the  drops  from  his  mantle,  and 
the  profound  contempt  apparent  on  his  face  when  he 
raised  his  eyes  to  the  now  vacant  window. 

Just  then  a  delicate  white  hand  lifted  the  lower  part 
of  one  of  the  roughly  made  windows  on  the  third  floor 
by  means  of  those  old-fashioned  grooves,  whose  pulleys 
so  often  let  fall  the  heavy  sashes  they  were  intended  to 
hold  up.  The  watcher  was  rewarded  for  his  long  wait- 
ing. The  face  of  a  young  girl,  fresh  as  the  white  lilies 
that  bloom  on  the  surface  of  a  lake,  appeared,  framed 


8  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

hy  a  rumpled  muslin  cap,  wbicli  gave  a  delightful  look 
of  innocence  to  the  head.  Her  neck  and  shoulders, 
though  covered  with  some  brown  stuff,  were  plainly 
seen  through  rifts  in  the  garment  opened  by  movements 
made  in  sleep.  No  sign  of  constraint  marred  the  in- 
genuous expression  of  that  face  nor  the  calm  of  those 
eyes,  immortalized  already  in  the  sublime  conceptions 
of  Raffaelle ;  here  was  the  same  grace,  the  same  virgin 
tranquillity  now  become  proverbial.  A  charming  con- 
trast was  produced  b}^  the  youth  of  the  cheeks,  on  which 
sleep  had  thrown  into  relief  a  superabundance  of  life, 
and  the  age  of  the  massive  window,  with  its  coai^se 
frame  now  blackened  by  time.  Like  those  day-bloom- 
ing flowers  which  in  the  early  morning  have  not  as  yet 
unfolded  their  tunics  tightly  closed  against  the  chill  of 
night,  the  3'oung  girl,  scarcely  awake,  let  her  eyes  wan- 
der across  the  neighboring  roofs  and  upward  to  the  sky  ; 
then  she  lowered  them  to  the  gloomy  precincts  of  the 
street,  where  they  at  once  encountered  those  of  her 
adorer.  No  doubt  her  innate  coquetry  caused  her  a 
pang  of  mortification  at  being  seen  in  such  dishabille, 
for  she  quickl}^  drew  back,  the  worn-out  sash-pulle}- 
turned,  the  window  came  down  with  a  rapidity  which 
has  earned,  in  our  day,  an  odious  name  for  that  naive 
invention  of  our  ancestors,  and  the  vision  disappeared. 
The  brightest  of  the  stars  of  the  morning  seemed  to  the 
j'oung  man  to  have  passed  suddenly  under  a  cloud. 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  9 

While  these  trifling  events  were  occurring,  the  heavy 
inside  shutters  which  protected  the  thin  glass  of  the 
windows  in  the  shop,  called  the  House  of  the  Cut- 
])laying-ball,  had  been  opened  as  if  by  magic.  The 
door,  with  its  old  fashioned  knocker,  was  set  back 
against  the  inner  wall  by  a  serving-man,  who  might 
have  been  contemporary  with  the  sign  itself,  and  whose 
shaking  hand  fastened  to  the  picture  a  square  bit  of 
cloth,  on  which  were  embroidered  in  yellow  silk  the 
words,  "  Guillauoae,  successor  to  Chevrel."  More  than 
one  pedestrian  would  have  been  unable  to  guess  the 
business  in  which  the  said  Guillaume  was  engaged. 
Through  the  heavy  iron  bars  which  protected  the  shop 
window  on  the  outside,  it  was  difficult  to  see  the  bales 
wrapped  in  brown  linen,  which  were  as  numerous  as  a 
school  of  herrings  on  their  waj'  across  the  ocean.  In 
spite  of  the  apparent  simplicity  of  this  gothic  facade, 
Monsieur  Guillaume  was  among  the  best  known  drapers 
in  Paris,  one  whose  shop  was  always  well  supplied, 
whose  business  relations  were  widely  extended,  and 
whose  commercial  honor  no  one  had  ever  doubted.  If 
some  of  his  fellow-tradesmen  made  contracts  with  the 
government  without  possessing  cloth  enough  to  fulfil 
them,  he  was  always  able  and  willing  to  lend  them 
enough  to  make  up  deficiencies,  however  large  the  num- 
ber contracted  for  might  be.  The  shrewd  dealer  knew 
a  hundred  ways  of  drawing  the  lion's  share  of  profits  to 


10  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

himself  without  being  forced,  like  the  others,  to  beg  for 
influence,  or  do  base  things,  or  give  rich  presents.  If 
the  ti'adesmen  he  thus  assisted  could  not  pay  the  loan 
except  by  long  drafts  on  good  security,  he  referred 
them  to  his  notary,  like  an  accommodating  man,  and 
managed  to  get  a  double  profit  out  of  the  aflTair;  an 
expedient  which  led  to  a  remark,  almost  proverbial  in 
the  rue  Saint-Denis,  "  God  keep  us  from  the  notar}'  of 
Monsieur  Guillaume ! " 

The  old  dealer  happened,  as  if  by  some  miraculous 
chance,  to  be  standing  at  the  open  door  of  his  shop 
just  as  the  servant,  having  finished  that  part  of  his 
morning  duty,  withdrew.  Monsieur  Guillaume  looked 
up  and  down  the  rue  Saint-Denis,  then  at  the  adjoining 
shops,  and  then  at  the  weather,  like  a  man  landing 
at  Havi'e  who  sees  France  again  after  a  long  voy- 
age. Having  fully  convinced  himself  that  nothing  had 
changed  since  he  went  to  sleep  the  night  befoi'e,  he 
now  perceived  the  man  doing  sentry  duty,  who,  on  his 
side,  was  examining  the  patriarch  of  drapery  very  much 
as  Humboldt  must  have  examined  the  first  electric  eel 
which  he  saw  in  America. 

Monsieur  Guillaume  wore  wide  breeches  of  black 
velvet,  dyed  stockings,  and  square  shoes  with  silver 
buckles ;  his  coat,  made  with  square  lappels,  square 
skirts,  and  square  collar,  wrapped  a  figure,  slightly  bent, 
in  its  loose  folds  of  greenish  cloth,  and  was  fastened  with 


I 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  11 

large,  white,  metal  buttons  tarnished  from  use  ;  his  gray 
hair  was  so  carefully  combed  and  plastered  to  his  yel- 
low skull  that  the  two  presented  somewhat  the  eflcct  of 
a  ploughed  field  ;  his  little  green  eyes,  sharp  as  giuilcls, 
glittered  under  lids  whose  pale  red  edges  took  the  place 
of  lashes.  Care  had  furrowed  his  brow  with  as  many 
horizontal  lines  as  there  were  folds  in  his  coat.  The 
pallid  face  bespoke  patience,  commercial  wisdom,  and 
a  species  of  sl}^  cupidity  acquired  in  business. 

At  the  period  of  which  we  write  it  was  less  rare  than 
it  is  now  to  meet  with  old  commercial  families  who  pre- 
served as  precious  traditions  the  manners,  customs,  and 
characteristics  of  their  particular  callings ;  and  who 
remained,  in  the  midst  of  the  new  civilization,  as  ante- 
diluvian as  the  fossils  discovered  by  Cuvier  in  the  quar- 
ries. The  head  of  the  Guillaume  famil}-  was  one  of  these 
noteworthy  guardians  of  old  customs  ;  he  even  regretted 
the  provost-marshal  of  merchants,  and  never  spoke  of  a 
decision  in  the  court  of  commerce  without  calling  it  "  the 
sentence  of  the  consuls."  Having  risen,  in  accordance 
with  these  customs,  the  earliest  in  the  house,  he  was 
now  awaiting  with  a  determined  air  the  arrival  of  his 
three  clerks,  intending  to  scold  them  if  a  trifle  late. 
Those  heedless  disciples  of  Mercury  knew  nothing  more 
appalling  than  the  silent  observation  with  which  the 
master  scrutinized  their  faces  and  their  movements  of  a 
Monday  morning,  searching  for  proofs  or  traces  of  their 


12  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

frolics.  But,  strange  to  sa}-,  just  as  the}-  api^eared,  the 
old  draper  paid  no  attention  to  his  apprentices  ;  he  was 
engaged  in  finding  a  motive  for  the  evident  interest 
with  which  the  young  man  in  silk  stockings  and  a 
cloak  turned  his  e3'es  alternatelj-  on  the  pictured  sign 
and  then  into  the  depths  of  the  shop.  The  daylight, 
now  increasing,  showed  the  counting-room  behind  an 
iron  railing  covered  by  curtains  of  faded  green  silk, 
where  Monsieur  Guillaume  kept  his  huge  books,  the  mute 
oracles  of  his  business.  The  too  inquisitive  stranger 
seemed  to  have  an  e3'e  on  them,  and  also  to  be  scruti- 
nizing the  adjoining  dining-room,  where  the  famil}', 
when  assembled  for  a  meal,  could  see  whatever  hap- 
pened at  the  entrance  of  the  shop.  So  great  an  interest 
in  his  private  premises  seemed  suspicious  to  the  old 
merchant,  who  had  lived  under  the  law  of  the  maxi- 
mum. Consequentl}",  Monsieur  Guillaume  supposed, 
not  unnaturally,  that  the  doubtful  stranger  had  designs 
upon  his  strong-box. 

The  elder  of  the  clerks,  after  discreetlj^  enjoj-ing  the 
silent  duel  which  was  taking  place  between  his  master 
and  the  stranger,  ventured  to  come  out  upon  the  step 
where  stood  Monsieur  Guillaume,  and  there  he  observed 
that  the  3'oung  man  was  glancing  fui'tivel}'  at  the  third- 
floor  windows.  The  clerk  made  three  steps  into  the 
street,  looked  up,  and  fancied  he  caught  sight  of  Ma- 
demoiselle Augustine  Guillaume  hastily  retiring.    Dis- 


Fame  and  Sorroiv.  13 

pleased  with  this  show  of  perspicacity  on  the  part  of  his 
head-clerk,  the  draper  looked  askance  at  his  subordi- 
nate. Then  suddenly  the  mutual  anxieties  excited  in 
the  souls  of  lover  and  merchant  were  allayed,  —  the 
stranger  hailed  a  passing  hackney  coach,  and  jumped 
into  it  with  a  deceitful  air  of  indifference.  His  depart- 
ure shed  a  sort  of  balm  into  the  souls  of  the  other 
clerks,  who  were  somewhat  uneasy  at  the  presence  of 
their  victim. 

"Well,  gentlemen,  what  are  you  about,  standing 
there  with  your  arms  crossed  ?  "  said  Monsieur  Guil- 
laurae  to  his  three  neophytes.  "  In  my  day,  good 
faith,  when  I  was  under  the  Sieur  Chevrel,  I  had  ex- 
amined two  pieces  of  cloth  before  this  time  of  da}- !  " 

"  Then  it  must  have  been  daylight  earlier,"  said  the 
second  clerk,  whose  duty  it  was  to  examine  the  rolls. 

The  old  dealer  could  not  help  smiling.  Though  two 
of  the  three  clerks,  consigned  to  his  care  by  their  fath- 
ers, rich  manufacturers  at  Louviers  and  Sedan,  had  only 
to  ask  on  the  day  they  came  of  age  for  a  hundred  thou- 
sand francs,  to  have  them,  Guillaume  believed  it  to  be 
his  duty  to  keep  them  under  the  iron  rod  of  an  old- 
fashioned  despotism,  wholly  unknown  in  these  da3's  in 
our  brilliant  modern  shops,  where  the  clerks  expect  to 
be  rich  men  at  thirt}',  —  he  made  them  work  like  negro 
slaves.  His  three  clerks  did  as  much  as  would  have 
tired  out  ten  of  the  modern  sybarites  whose  laziness 


14  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

swells  the  columns  of  a  budget.  No  sound  ever  broke 
the  stillness  of  that  solemn  establishment,  where  all 
hinges  were  oiled,  and  the  smallest  article  of  furniture 
was  kept  with  a  virtuous  nicety  which  showed  severe 
economy  and  the  strictest  order.  Sometimes  the  gid- 
diest of  the  three  clerks  ventured  to  scratch  upon  the 
rind  of  the  Gruyere  cheese,  which  was  delivered  to 
them  at  breakfast  and  scrupulousl}^  respected  by  them, 
the  date  of  its  first  delivery.  This  prank,  and  a  few 
others  of  a  like  kind,  would  occasionally  bring  a  smile 
to  the  lips  of  Guillaume's  youngest  daughter,  the  pretty 
maiden  who  had  just  passed  like  a  vision  before  the 
ej'es  of  the  enchanted  watcher. 

Though  each  of  the  apprentices  paid  a  large  sum  for 
his  board,  not  one  of  them  would  have  dared  to  remain 
at  table  until  the  dessert  was  served.  When  Madame 
Guillaume  made  read}'  to  mix  the  salad,  the  poor  3'oung 
fellows  trembled  to  think  with  what  parsimony  that  pru- 
dent hand  would  pour  the  oil.  They  were  not  allowed 
to  pass  a  night  off  the  premises  without  giving  long 
notice  and  plausible  reasons  for  the  irregularity.  Every 
Sunday  two  clerks,  taking  the  honor  hy  turns,  accom- 
panied the  Guillaume  family  to  mass  and  to  vespers." 
Mesdemoiselles  Virginie  and  Augustine,  Gillaume's  two 
daughters,  modestly  attired  in  printed  cotton  gowns, 
each  took  the  arm  of  a  clerk  and  walked  in  front, 
beneath  the  piercing  eyes  of  their  mother,  who  brought 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  15 

up  the  domestic  procession  witli  her  husband,  com- 
pelled by  her  to  carry  two  large  pra3'er-books  Uound 
in  black  morocco.  The  second  clerk  received  no  salary  ; 
as  to  the  elder,  whom  twelve  years  of  perseverance  and 
discretion  had  initiated  into  the  secrets  of  the  establish- 
ment, he  received  twelve  hundred  francs  a  3'ear  in  re- 
turn for  his  services.  On  certain  famil}-  fSte-days  a  few 
gifts  were  bestowed  upon  him,  the  sole  value  of  which 
lay  in  the  labor  of  Madame  Guillaume's  lean  and  wrinkled 
hands,  —  knitted  purses,  which  she  took  care  to  stuff 
with  cotton  wool  to  show  their  patterns,  braces  of  the 
strongest  construction,  or  silk  stockings  of  the  heaviest 
make.  Sometimes,  but  rarely,  this  prime  minister  was 
allowed  to  share  the  enjoyments  of  the  family  when  they 
spent  a  day  in  the  country  or,  after  months  of  deliber- 
ation, the}'  decided  to  hire  a  box  at  the  theatre,  and 
use  their  right  to  demand  some  play  of  which  Paris  had 
long  been  weary. 

As  to  the  other  clerks,  the  barrier  of  respect  which 
formerly  separated  a  master  draper  from  his  appren- 
tices was  so  firmly  fixed  between  them  and  the  old 
merchant  that  they  would  have  feared  less  to  steal  a 
piece  of  cloth  than  to  break  through  that  august  eti- 
quette. This  deference  may  seem  preposterous  in  our 
day,  but  these  old  houses  were  schools  of  commercial 
honesty  anfl  dignit}'.  The  masters  adopted  the  appren- 
tices ;  their  linen  was  cared  for,  mended,  and  often  re- 


16  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

newed  by  the  mistress  of  the  house.  If  a  clerk  fell  ill 
the  attention  he  received  was  truly  maternal ;  in  case  of 
danger  the  master  spared  no  money  and  called  in  the 
best  doctors,  for  he  held  himself  answerable  to  the 
parents  of  these  young  men  for  their  health  as  well  as 
for  their  morals  and  their  business  training.  If  one  of 
them,  honorable  by  nature,  was  overtaken  by  some  dis- 
aster, these  old  merchants  knew  how  to  appreciate  the 
real  intelligence  such  a  j'outh  had  displayed,  and  often 
did  not  hesitate  to  trust  the  happiness  of  a  daughter  to 
one  to  whom  they  had  already  confided  the  care  of  their 
business.  Guillaume  was  one  of  these  old-fashioned  busi- 
ness men ;  if  he  had  their  absurdities,  he  had  also  their 
fine  qualities.  Thus  it  was  that  Joseph  Lebas,  his  head- 
clerk,  an  orphan  without  property,  was,  to  his  mind,  a 
suitable  husband  for  Virginie,  his  eldest  daughter.  But 
Joseph  did  not  share  these  cut-and-dried  opinions  of 
his  master,  who,  for  an  empire,  would  not  have  married 
his  youngest  daughter  before  the  elder.  The  unfortu- 
nate clerk  felt  that  his  heart  was  given  to  Mademoiselle 
Augustine,  the  younger  sister.  To  explain  this  passion, 
which  had  grown  up  secretl}',  we  must  look  further  into 
the  system  of  autocratic  government  which  ruled  the 
house  and  home  of  the  old  merchant  draper. 

Guillaume  had  two  daughters.  The  eldest.  Made- 
moiselle Virginie,  was  a  reproduction  of  *her  mother. 
Madame  Guillaume,  daughter  of  the  Sieur  Chevrel,  sat 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  17 

so  firm]}'  upright  behind  her  counter  that  she  had  more 
than  once  overheard  bets  as  to  her  being  impaled  there. 
Her  long,  thin  face  expressed  a  sanctimonious  piety. 
Madame  Guillaume,  devoid  of  all  gi-ace  and  without 
amiabilit}'  of  manner,  covered  her  sexagenary  head  with 
a  bonnet  of  invariable  shape  trimmed  with  long  lappets 
like  those  of  a  widow.  The  whole  neighborhood  called 
her  "the  nun."  Her  words  were  few;  her  gestures 
sudden  and  jerky,  like  the  action  of  a  telegraph.  Her 
eyes,  clear  as  those  of  a  cat,  seemed  to  disHke  the 
■whole  world  because  she  herself  was  ugly.  Mademoi- 
selle Virginie,  brought  up,  like  her  3-ounger  sister,  under 
the  domestic  rule  of  her  mother,  was  now  twentj'-eight 
j-ears  of  age.  Youth  softened  the  ill-favored,  awkward 
air  which  her  resemblance  to  her  mother  gave  at  times 
to  her  appearance  ;  but  maternal  severity'  had  bestowed 
upon  her  two  great  qualities  which  counterbalanced  the 
rest  of  her  inheritance,  —  she  was  gentle  and  patient. 
Mademoiselle  Augustine,  now  scarcely  eighteen  years 
old,  was  like  neither  father  nor  mother.  She  was  one 
of  those  girls  who,  by  the  absence  of  all  physical  ties 
to  their  parents,  seem  to  justify  the  saying  of  prudes, 
"God  sends  the  children."  Augustine  was  small,  or, 
to  give  a  better  idea  of  her,  delicate.  Graceful  and  full 
of  simplicity  and  candor,  a  man  of  the  world  could  have 
found  no  fault  with  the  charming  creature  except  that 
her  gestures  were  unmeaning  and  her  attitudes  occasion- 

2 


18  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

ally  common,  or  even  awkward.  Her  silent  and  qui- 
escent face  expressed  the  fleeting  melancholy  which 
fastens  upon  all  young  girls  who  are  too  feeble  to  dare 
resist  the  will  of  a  domineering  mother. 

Always  modestly  dressed,  the  two  sisters  had  no  way 
of  satisfying  the  innate  coquetry  of  their  woman's  nature 
except  by  a  luxury  of  cleanliness  and  neatness  which 
became  them  wonderfully,  and  put  them  in  keeping 
with  the  shining  counters  and  shelves  on  which  the  old 
servant  allowed  not  a  speck  of  dust  to  settle,  —  in 
keeping,  too,  with  the  antique  simplicity  of  everything 
about  them.  Forced  by  such  a  life  to  find  the  elements 
of  happiness  in  regular  occupation,  Augustine  and  Vir- 
ginie  had  up  to  this  time  given  nothing  but  satisfac- 
tion to  their  mother,  who  secretly  congratulated  herself 
on  the  perfect  characters  of  her  two  daughters.  It  is 
easy  to  imagine  the  results  of  such  an  education  as 
they  had  received.  Brought  up  in  the  midst  of  busi- 
ness, accustomed  to  hear  arguments  and  calculations 
that  were  grievousl}^  mercantile,  taught  grammar,  book- 
keeping, a  little  Jewish  history,  a  little  French  history 
in  La  Ragois,  and  allowed  to  read  no  books  but  those 
their  mother  sanctioned,  it  is  unnecessary  to  say  that 
their  ideas  were  limited  ;  but  they  knew  how  to  manage 
a  household  admirably  ;  they  understood  the  value  and 
the  cost  of  things ;  they  appreciated  the  diflSculties  in 
the  way  of  amassing  money  ;  they  were  economical  and 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  19 

full  of  respect  for  the  faculties  and  qualities  of  men  of 
business.  In  spite  of  their  father's  wealth,  they  were 
as  clever  at  darning  as  they  were  at  embroider}' ;  their 
mother  talked  of  teaching  them  to  cook,  so  that  they 
might  know  how  to  order  a  dinner  and  scold  the  cook 
from  actual  experience. 

These  girls,  who  were  ignorant  of  the  pleasures  of  the 
world  and  saw  onl}'  the  peaceful  current  of  their  parents' 
exemplary  lives,  seldom  cast  their  3'outhful  e^'cs  beyond 
the  precincts  of  that  old  patrimonial  house,  which  to 
their  mother  was  the  universe.  The  parties  occasioned 
b}'  certain  family  solemnities  formed  the  whole  horizon 
of  their  terrestrial  joys.  When  the  large  salon  on  the 
second  floor  was  thrown  open  to  receive  guests,  —  such 
as  Madame  Roguin,  formerly  Mademoiselle  Chevrel, 
fifteen  j'ears  3'ounger  than  her  cousin,  and  who  wore 
diamonds  ;  3"oung  Rabourdin,  head-clerk  at  the  ministry 
of  Finance ;  Monsieur  Caesar  Birotteau,  the  rich  per- 
fumer, and  his  wife,  called  Madame  Caesar ;  Monsieur 
Camusot,  the  richest  silk  merchant  in  the  rue  des  Bour- 
donnais ;  his  father-in-law,  Monsieur  Cardot ;  two  or 
three  old  bankers,  and  certain  irreproachable  women,  — 
then  the  preparations  in  getting  out  the  silver  plate,  the 
Dresden  china,  the  wax  candles,  the  choice  glass,  all 
carefully  packed  away,  were  a  diversion  to  the  monoto- 
nous lives  of  the  three  women,  who  went  and  came, 
with  as  many  steps  and  as  much  fuss  as  though  they 


20  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

were  nuns  preparing  for  the  reception  of  their  bishop. 
Then,  at  night,  when  all  three  were  tired  out  with  the 
exertion  of  wiping,  rubbing,  unpacking,  and  putting  in 
their  places  the  ornaments  of  these  festivals,  and  the 
^•oung  girls  were  helping  their  mother  to  go  to  bed, 
Madame  Guillaume  would  sa}',  "My  dears,  we  have 
really  accomplished  nothing." 

If,  at  these  solemn  assemblies,  the  pious  creature  al- 
lowed a  little  dancing,  and  kept  the  whist  and  the 
boston  and  the  tric-trac  players  to  the  confines  of  her 
own  bedroom,  the  concession  was  accepted  as  an  un- 
hoped-for felicit}',  and  gave  as  much  happiness  as  the 
two  or  three  pubhc  balls  to  which  Guillaume  took  his 
daughters  during  the  carnival.  Once  a  year  the  worthy 
draper  himself  gave  an  entertainment  on  which  he 
spared  no  expense.  However  rich  and  elegant  the  in- 
vited guests  might  be,  they  took  care  not  to  miss  that 
fete ;  for  the  most  important  business  houses  in  the 
city  often  had  recourse  to  the  vast  credit,  or  the  wealth, 
or  the  great  experience  of  Monsieur  Guillaume.  The 
two  daughters  of  the  worth}"  merchant  did  not,  however, 
profit  as  much  as  might  be  thought  from  the  instructions 
which  society  offers  to  young  minds.  They  wore  at 
these  entertainments  (bills  of  exchange,  as  it  were,  upon 
futurity)  wreaths  and  ornaments  of  so  common  a  kind 
as  to  make  them  blush.  Their  style  of  dancing  was  not 
of  the  best,  and  maternal  vigilance  allowed  them  to  say 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  21 

only  "  Yes  "  or  "  No  "  to  their  partners.  Then  the  invari- 
able domestic  rule  of  the  Cat-playing-ball  obliged  them 
to  retire  at  eleven  o'clock,  just  as  the  party  was  getting 
animated,  80  their  pleasures,  apparently  conformable 
^vitll  their  father's  wealth,  were  really  dull  and  insipid 
through  circumstances  derived  from  the  habits  and 
principles  of  their  family. 

As  to  their  daily  life,  a  single  fact  will  suffice  to  paint 
it.  Madame  Guillaume  required  her  daughters  to  dress 
for  the  day  in  the  early  morning,  to  come  downstairs 
at  precisely  the  same  hour,  and  to  arrange  their  occu- 
pations with  monastic  regularity.  Yet,  with  all  this, 
chance  had  bestowed  upon  Augustine  a  soul  that  was 
able  to  feel  the  void  of  such  an  existence.  Sometimes 
those  blue  eyes  were  lifted  for  a  moment  as  if  to  ques- 
tion the  dark  depths  of  the  stairway  or  the  damp  shop. 
Listening  to  the  cloistral  silence  her  ears  seemed  to  hear 
from  afar  confused  revelations  of  the  passionate  life, 
which  counts  emotions  as  of  more  value  than  things.  At 
such  moments  the  girl's  face  glowed  ;  her  idle  hands 
let  fall  the  muslin  on  the  polished  oaken  counter ;  but 
soon  the  mother's  voice  would  say,  in  tones  that  were 
always  sharp,  even  when  she  intended  them  to  be 
gentle,  "Augustine,  m}'  dear,  what  are  3'ou  thinking 
about?" 

Perhaps  "  Hippolyte,  Earl  of  Douglas,"  and  the 
"  Conite  de  Comminges,"  two  novels  which  Augustine 


22  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

had  found  in  the  closet  of  a  cook  dismissed  by  Madame 
Guillaume,  may  have  contributed  to  develop  the  ideas 
of  the  young  girl,  who  had  stealthily  devoured  those 
productions  during  the  long  nights  of  the  preceding 
winter.  The  unconscious  expression  of  vague  desire, 
the  soft  voice,  the  jasmine  skin,  and  the  blue  e^-es  of 
Augustine  Guillaume  had  lighted  a  flame  in  the  soul  of 
poor  Lebas  as  violent  as  it  was  humble.  By  a  caprice 
that  is  easy  enough  to  understand,  Augustine  felt  no 
inclination  for  Joseph  ;  perhaps  because  she  did  not 
know  he  loved  her.  On  the  other  hand,  the  long  legs 
and  chestnut  hair,  the  strong  hands  and  vigorous  frame 
of  the  head-clerk  excited  the  admiration  of  Mademoiselle 
Virginie,  who  had  not  3et  been  asked  in  marriage  in 
spite  of  a  dowr}^  of  a  hundred  and  fiftj^  thousand  francs. 
What  could  be  more  natural  than  these  inversed  loves, 
born  in  the  silence  of  that  shop  like  violets  in  the  depths 
of  the  woods?  The  mute  contemplation  which  constantly 
drew  the  eyes  of  these  j'oung  people  together,  through 
their  violent  need  of  some  relief  from  the  monotonous 
toil  and  the  religious  calm  in  which  they  lived,  could  not 
fail  to  excite,  sooner  or  later,  the  emotions  of  love. 
The  habit  of  looking  into  the  face  of  another  leads  to 
an  understanding  of  the  noble  qualities  of  the  soul,  and 
ends  1)3'  obliterating  all  defects. 

"  At  the  rate  that  man  carries  things,"  thought  Mon- 
sieur Guillaume  when  he  read  Napoleon's  first  decree  on 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  23 

the  classes  for  conscription,  '•  our  daughters  -will  have 
to  go  upon  their  knees  for  husbands." 

It  was  about  that  time  that  the  old  merchant,  noticing 
that  his  eldest  daughter  was  beginning  to  fade,  be- 
thought him  that  he  himself  had  married  Mademoiselle 
Chevrel  under  very  much  the  same  circumstances  as 
those  in  which  Virginie  and  Joseph  Lebas  stood  to  each 
other.  What  a  fine  thing  it  would  be  to  marr}'  his 
daughter  and  pay  a  sacred  debt  by  returning  to  the 
orphaned  young  man  the  same  benefaction  that  he  him- 
self had  received  from  his  predecessor  in  a  like  situa- 
tion? Joseph  Lebas,  w^io  was  thirtj'-three  years  of 
age,  was  fully  conscious  of  the  obstacles  that  a  differ- 
ence of  fifteen  years  in  their  ages  placed  between  Au- 
gustine and  himself.  Too  shrewd  and  intelligent  not  to 
fathom  Monsieur  Guillaume's  intentions,  he  understood 
his  master's  inexorable  principles  far  too  well  to  sup- 
pose for  a  moment  that  the  30unger  daughter  could  be 
married  before  the  elder.  The  poor  clerk,  whose  heart 
was  as  good  as  his  legs  were  long  and  his  shoulders 
high,  suffered  in  silence. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things  in  this  little  republic  of 
the  rue  Saint-Denis,  which  seemed  in  many  waj's  like  an 
annex  to  La  Trappe.  But  to  explain  external  events 
as  we  have  now  explained  inward  feelings,  it  is  neces- 
sar}-  to  look  back  a  few  mouths  before  the  little  scene 
which  began  this  history. 


24  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

One  evening  at  dusk  a  young  man,  happening  to  pass 
before  tlie  shop  of  the  Cat-playing-ball,  stopped  to  look 
at  a  scene  within  those  precincts  which  all  the  painters 
of  the  world  would  have  paused  to  contemplate.  The 
shop,  which  was  not  yet  lighted  up,  formed  a  dark  vista 
through  which  the  merchant's  dining-room  was  seen. 
An  astral  lamp  on  the  dinner-table  shed  that  j'ellow 
light  which  gives  such  charm  to  the  Dutch  pictures. 
The  white  table-linen,  the  silver,  the  glass,  were  bril- 
liant accessories,  still  further  thrown  into  relief  by  the 
sharp  contrasts  of  light  and  shadow.  The  figures  of 
the  father  of  the  family'  and  his  wife,  the  faces  of  the 
clerks,  and  the  pure  lines  of  Augustine,  near  to  whom 
stood  a  stout,  chubby  servant-girl,  composed  so  remark- 
able a  picture,  the  heads  were  so  original,  the  expression 
of  each  character  was  so  frank,  it  was  so  eas^^  to  imagine 
the  peace,  the  silence,  the  modest  life  of  the  famil}-,  that 
to  an  artist  accustomed  to  express  nature  there  was 
something  absolutely'  commanding  in  the  desire  to  paint 
this  accidental  scene. 

The  pedestrian,  thus  arrested,  was  a  3'oung  painter 
who,  seven  3'ears  earlier,  had  carried  off  the  prix  de 
Rome.  He  had  latety  returned  from  the  Eternal  City. 
His  soul,  fed  on  poesy,  his  eyes  surfeited  with  Raffaelle 
and  Michael- Angelo,  were  now  athirst  for  simple  nature 
after  his  long  sojourn  in  the  might}'  land  where  art  has 
reached  its  highest  grandeur.     True  or  false,  such  was 


Fame  and  Sorroiv.  25 

his  personal  feeling.  Carried  away  for  )'ears  by  the  fire 
of  Italian  passions,  his  heart  now  sought  a  eahn  and 
modest  virgin,  known  to  him  as  yet  only  upon  canvas. 
The  first  enthusiasm  of  his  soul  at  the  simple  picture 
before  his  eyes  passed  naturally  into  a  deep  admiration 
for  the  principal  figure.  Augustine  seemed  thoughtful, 
and  was  eating  nothing.  By  a  chance  arrangement  of 
the  lamp,  the  light  fell  full  upon  her  face,  and  her  bust 
api)eared  to  move  in  a  circle  of  flame,  which  threw  into 
still  brighter  relief  the  outline  of  her  head,  illuminating 
it  in  a  wa}'  that  seemed  half  supernatural.  The  artist 
compared  her  involuntarily  to  an  exiled  angel  remem- 
bering heaven.  A  mysterious  feeling,  almost  unknown 
to  him,  a  love  limpid  and  bubbling  overflowed  his 
heart.  After  standing  a  moment  as  if  paralyzed  be- 
neath the  weight  of  these  ideas,  he  tore  himself  away 
from  his  happiness  and  went  home,  unable  either  to 
eat  or  sleep. 

The  next  day  he  entered  his  studio,  and  did  not  leave 
it  again  until  he  had  placed  on  canvas  the  magic  charm 
of  a  scene  the  mere  recollection  of  which  had,  as  it  were, 
laid  a  spell  upon  him.  But  his  happiness  was  incom- 
plete so  long  as  he  did  not  possess  a  faithful  portrait  of 
his  idol.  Many  a  time  he  passed  before  the  house  of 
the  Cat-playing-ball ;  he  even  entered  the  shop  once 
or  twice  on  some  pretext  to  get  a  nearer  view  of  the 
ravishing  creature  who  was  always  covered  by  Madame 


26  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

Guillaume's  wing.  For  eight  whole  months,  given  up 
to  his  love  and  to  his  brushes,  he  was  invisible  to  his 
friends,  even  to  his  intimates  ;  he  forgot  all,  —  poetr}-, 
the  theatre,  music,  and  his  most  cherished  habits. 

One  morning  Girodet  the  painter  forced  his  way  in, 
eluding  all  barriers  as  only  artists  can,  and  woke  him 
up  with  the  inquiry,  "  What  are  you  going  to  send  to 
the  Salon?" 

The  artist  seized  his  friend's  arm,  led  him  to  the 
studio,  uncovered  a  little  easel  picture,  and  also  a  por- 
trait. After  a  slow  and  eager  examination  of  the  two 
masterpieces,  Girodet  threw  his  arms  around  his  friend 
and  kissed  him,  without  finding  words  to  speak.  His 
feelings  could  only  be  uttered  as  he  felt  them,  —  soul 
to  soul. 

"  You  love  her  !  "  he  said  at  last. 

Both  knew  that  the  noblest  portraits  of  Titian,  Raf- 
faelle,  and  Leonardo  da  Vinci  are  due  to  exalted  human 
feelings,  which,  under  so  manj'  diverse  conditions,  have 
given  birth  to  the  masterpieces  of  art.  For  all  answer 
the  3'oung  painter  bowed  his  head. 

' '  How  fortunate,  how  happy  you.  are  to  be  able  to 
love  here,  in  Paris,  after  leaving  Ital}'.  I  can't  advise 
j'ou  to  send  such  works  as  those  to  the  Salon,"  added 
the  distinguished  painter.  "  You  see,  such  pictures 
cannot  be  felt  there.  Those  absolutelj^  true  colors, 
that   stupendous   labor,  will   not  be  understood ;    the 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  27 

public  is  no  longer  able  to  see  into  such  depths.  The 
pictures  we  paint  now-a-days,  dear  friend,  are  mere 
screens  for  decoration.  Better  make  verses,  say  I, 
and  translate  the  ancients,  —  we  shall  get  a  truer  fame 
that  way  than  our  miserable  pictures  will  ever  bring 
us." 

But  in  spite  of  this  friendl}'  advice  the  two  pictures 
were  exhibited.  That  of  the  interior  made  almost  a 
revolution  in  art.  It  gave  bii'th  to  the  fashion  of  genre 
pictures  which  since  that  time  have  so  filled  our  exhi- 
bitions that  one  might  almost  believe  they  were  produced 
by  some  mechanical  process.  As  to  the  portrait,  there 
are  few  living  artists  who  do  not  cherish  the  memory  of 
that  breathing  canvas  on  which  the  general  public,  occa- 
sionally just  in  its  judgment,  left  the  crown  of  praise 
which  Girodet  himself  placed  there. 

The  two  pictures  were  surrounded  by  crowds.  People 
killed  themselves,  as  women  saj-,  to  look  at  them.  Spec- 
ulators and  great  lords  would  have  covered  both  can- 
vases with  double-napoleons,  but  the  artist  obstinately 
refused  to  sell  them,  declining  also  to  make  copies. 
He  was  offered  an  immense  sum  if  he  would  allow  them 
to  be  engraved  ;  but  the  dealers  were  no  more  success- 
ful than  the  amateurs.  Though  this  affair  engrossed 
the  social  world,  it  was  not  of  a  nature  to  penetrate  the 
depths  of  Egyptian  solitude  in  the  rue  Saint-Denis.  It 
so  chanced,  however,  that  the  wife  of  a  notary,  paying 


28  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

a  visit  to  Madame  Guillaume,  spoke  of  the  exhibition 
before  Augustine,  of  whom  she  was  veiy  fond,  and 
explained  what  it  was.  Madame  Roguin's  chatter  nat- 
urally inspired  Augustine  with  a  desire  to  see  the  pict- 
ures, and  with  the  boldness  to  secretly  ask  her  cousin 
to  take  her  to  the  Louvre.  Madame  Roguin  succeeded 
in  the  negotiation  she  undertook  with  Madame  Guil- 
laume, and  was  allowed  to  take  her  little  cousin  from 
her  daily  tasks  for  the  short  space  of  two  hours. 

Thus  it  was  that  the  young  girl,  passing  through  the 
crowd,  stood  before  the  famous  picture.  A  quiver 
made  her  tremble  like  a  birch-leaf  when  she  recognized 
her  own  self.  She  was  frightened,  and  looked  about 
to  rejoin  Madame  Roguin,  from  whom  the  crowd  had 
parted  her.  At  that  instant  her  e^-es  encountered 
the  flushed  face  of  the  5'oung  painter.  She  suddenly 
remembered  a  man  who  had  frequently  passed  the  shop 
and  whom  she  had  often  remarked,  thinking  he  was 
some  new  neighbor. 

"  You  see  there  the  inspiration  of  love,"  said  the  ar- 
tist in  a  whisper  to  the  timid  creature,  who  was  terrified 
b}'  his  words. 

She  summoned  an  almost  supernatural  courage  to 
force  her  way  through  the  crowd  and  rejoin  her 
cousin. 

"  You  will  be  suffocated,"  cried  Augustine.  "  Do  let 
us  sro ! " 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  29 

But  there  are  certain  moments  at  the  Salon  when 
two  women  are  not  able  to  move  freely  through  the 
galleries.  Mademoiselle  Guillaume  and  her  cousin  were 
blocked  and  pushed  by  the  swaying  crowd  to  within 
a  few  feet  of  the  second  picture.  The  exclamation  of 
surprise  uttered  by  Madame  Roguin  was  lost  in  the 
noises  of  the  room ;  but  Augustine  involuntarily  wept 
as  she  looked  at  the  marvellous  scene.  Then,  with  a 
feeling  that  is  almost  inexplicable,  she  put  her  finger  on 
her  lips  as  she  saw  the  ecstatic  face  of  the  young  artist 
within  two  feet  of  her.  He  replied  with  a  motion  of 
his  head  toward  Madame  Roguin,  as  if  to  show  Augus- 
tine that  he  understood  her.  This  pantomime  threw  a 
fire  of  burning  coals  into  the  being  of  the  poor  girl, 
who  felt  she  was  criminal  in  thus  allowing  a  secret  com- 
pact between  herself  and  the  unknown  artist.  The  stif- 
ling heat,  the  sight  of  the  brilliant  dresses,  a  giddiness 
which  the  wonderful  combinations  of  color  produced  in 
her,  the  multitude  of  figures,  living  and  painted,  which 
surrounded  her,  the  profusion  of  gold  frames,  —  all 
gave  her  a  sense  of  intoxication  which  redoubled  her 
terrors.  She  might  have  fainted  if  there  had  not  welled 
up  from  the  depths  of  her  heart,  in  spite  of  this  chaos 
of  sensations,  a  mj'sterious  joy  which  vivified  her 
whole  being.  Still,  she  fancied  she  was  under  the  do- 
minion of  that  demon  whose  dreadful  snares  were  threats 
held  out  to  her  by  the  thundered  words  of  the  preach- 


30  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

ers.  The  moment  seemed  like  one  of  actual  madness 
to  her.  She  saw  she  was  accompanied  to  her  cousin's 
carriage  by  the  mj'sterious  young  man,  resplendent 
with  love  and  happiness.  A  new  and  unknown  excite- 
ment possessed  her,  an  intoxication  which  delivered 
her,  as  it  were,  into  the  hands  of  Nature ;  she  listened 
to  the  eloquent  voice  of  her  own  heart,  and  looked  at 
the  young  painter  several  times,  betraying  as  she  did 
so  the  agitation  of  her  thoughts.  Never  had  the  carna- 
tion of  her  cheeks  formed  a  more  charming  contrast  to 
the  whiteness  of  her  skin.  The  artist  then  beheld  that 
beaut}'  in  its  perfect  flower,  that  virgin  modest}-  in  all 
its  glory. 

Augustine  became  conscious  of  a  sort  of  joy  mingling 
with  her  terror  as  she  thought  how  her  presence  had 
brought  happiness  to  one  whose  name  was  on  CA^er}'  lip 
and  whose  talent  had  given  immortality  to  a  passing 
scene.  Yes,  she  was  beloved  !  sne  could  not  doubt  it ! 
When  she  ceased  to  see  him,  his  words  still  sounded  in 
her  ear :  "  You  see  the  inspiration  of  love  !  "  The  pal- 
pitations of  her  heart  were  painful,  so  violently  did  the 
now  ardent  blood  awaken  unknown  forces  in  her  being. 
She  complained  of  a  severe  headache  to  avoid  replying 
to  her  cousin's  questions  about  the  pictures  ;  but  when 
they  reached  home,  Madame  Eoguin  could  not  refrain 
from  telling  Madame  Guillaume  of  the  celebrity  given  to 
the  establishment  of  the  Cat-plajung-ball,  and  Angus- 


Fame  and  Sorroio.  31 

tine  trembled  in  every  limb  as  she  lieard  her  mother 
say  she  should  go  to  the  Salon  and  see  her  own  house. 
Again  the  young  girl  complained  of  her  headache,  and 
received  permission  to  go  to  bed. 

"That's  what  you  get  by  going  to  shows!"  ex- 
claimed Monsieur  Guillaume.  "Headaches!  Is  it  so 
very  amusing  to  see  a  picture  of  what  you  see  every 
da^'  in  the  street?  Don't  talk  to  me  of  artists  ;  they  are 
like  authors,  —  half-starved  beggars.  Why  the  devil 
should  that  fellow  choose  my  house  to  villify  in  his 
picture  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  will  help  to  sell  some  of  our  cloth,"  said 
Joseph  Lebas. 

That  remark  did  not  save  art  and  literature  from 
being  once  more  arraigned  and  condemned  before  the 
tribunal  of  commerce.  It  will  be  readily  believed  that 
such  discourse  brought  little  encouragement  to  Augus- 
tine, who  gave  herself  up  in  the  night-time  to  the  first 
revery  of  love.  The  events  of  the  day  were  like  those 
of  a  dream  which  she  deligbted  to  reproduce  in  thought. 
She  learned  the  fears,  the  hopes,  the  remorse,  all  those 
undulations  of  feeling  which  rock  a  heart  as  simple  and 
timid  as  hers.  "What  a  void  she  felt  within  that  gloomy 
house,  what  a  treasure  she  found  within  her  soul !  To 
be  the  wife  of  a  man  of  talent,  to  share  his  fame ! 
Imagine  the  havoc  such  a  thought  would  make  in  the 
heart  of  a  child  brought  up  in  the  bosom  of  such  a  fam- 


32  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

ily !  What  hopes  would  it  not  awaken  in  a  girl  who 
lived  among  the  vulgarities  of  life,  and  j-et  longed  for 
its  elegancies.  A  beam  of  light  had  come  into  her 
prison.  Augustine  loved,  loved  suddenly.  So  manj' 
repressed  feelings  were  gratified  that  she  succumbed  at 
once,  without  an  instant's  reflection.  At  eighteen  love 
flings  its  prism  between  the  world  and  the  ej'es  of  a 
maiden.  Incapable  of  imagining  the  harsh  experience 
which  comes  to  ever}^  loving  woman  married  to  a  man 
gifted  with  imagination,  she  fancied  herself  called  to 
make  the  happiness  of  such  a  man,  seeing  no  disparity 
between  them.  For  her  the  present  was  the  whole 
future. 

When  Monsieur  and  Madame  Guillaume  returned  the 
next  day  from  the  Salon,  their  faces  announced  disap- 
pointment and  annoyance.  In  the  first  place,  the  artist 
had  withdrawn  the  picture  ;  in  the  next,  Madame  Guil- 
laume had  lost  her  cashmere  shawl.  The  news  that  the 
pictures  had  been  withdrawn  after  her  visit  to  the  Salon 
was  to  Augustine  the  revelation  of  a  delicacy  of  senti- 
ment which  all  women  appreciate,  if  onl}'  instinctivel}'. 

The  morning  on  which,  returning  from  a  ball,  Theo- 
dore de  Sommervieux  (such  was  the  name  which  cele- 
brit}'  had  now  placed  in  Augustine's  heart),  was 
showered  with  soapy  water  by  the  clerks  of  the  Cat- 
playing- ball,  as  he  awaited  the  apparition  of  his  in- 
nocent beauty,  —  who  certainly'  did  not  know  he  was 


Fame  and  Sorroiv.  33 

there, — was  onl}'  the  fourth  occasion  of  their  seeing 
each  other  since  that  first  meeting  at  the  8alon.  The 
obstacles  which  the  iron  s^'stem  of  the  house  of  Guil- 
lanme  placed  in  the  way  of  the  ardent  and  impetuous 
nature  of  the  artist,  added  a  violence  to  his  passion  for 
Augustine,  which  will  be  readily  understood.  Plow  ap- 
proach a  young  girl  seated  behind  a  counter  between 
two  such  women  as  Mademoiselle  Virginie  and  Madame 
Guillaume?  How  was  it  possible  to  correspond  with 
hor  if  her  mother  never  left  her?  Ready,  like  all 
lovers,  to  invent  troubles  for  himself,  Theodore  se- 
lected a  rival  among  the  clerks,  and  suspected  the 
others  of  being  in  their  comrade's  interests.  If  he 
escaped  their  Argus  eyes  he  felt  he  should  succumb  to 
the  stern  glances  of  the  old  merchant  or  Madame  Guil- 
laume. Obstacles  on  all  sides,  despair  on  all  sides ! 
The  very  violence  of  his  passion  prevented  the  young 
man  from  inventing  those  clever  expedients  which,  in 
lovers  as  well  as  in  prisoners,  seem  to  be  crowning 
efforts  of  intellect  roused  either  by  a  savage  desire  for 
libert}'  or  b}'  the  ardor  of  love.  Then  Theodore  would 
rush  round  the  corner  like  a  madman,  as  if  movement 
alone  could  suggest  a  wa}'  out  of  the  difficult}'. 

After  allowing  his  imagination  to  torment  him  for 
weeks,  it  came  into  his  head  to  bribe  the  chubby 
servant-girl.    A  few  letters  were  thus  exchanged  during 

the  fortnight  which  followed  the  unlucky  morning  when 

3 


34  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

Monsieur  Guillaume  and  Theodore  had  first  met.  The 
loving  pair  had  now  agreed  to  see  each  other  daily  at  a 
certain  hour,  and  on  Sunday  at  the  church  of  Saint- 
Leu,  during  both  mass  and  vespers.  Augustine  had 
sent  her  dear  Theodore  a  list  of  the  friends  and  rela- 
tives of  the  family  to  whom  the  young  painter  was 
to  gain  access.  He  was  then  to  endeavor  to  inter- 
est in  his  loving  cause  some  one  of  those  mone}'- 
making  and  commercial  souls  to  whom  a  real  passion 
would  otherwise  seem  a  monstrous  and  unheard-of 
speculation. 

In  other  respects  nothing  happened  and  no  change 
took  place  in  the  habits  of  the  Cat-play ing-ball.  If 
Augustine  was  absent-minded ;  if,  against  every  law 
of  the  domestic  charter,  she  went  up  to  her  bedroom 
to  make  the  signals  under  cover  of  the  flower-pots ; 
if  she  sighed,  if  she  brooded,  —  no  one,  not  even  her 
mother,  found  it  out.  This  may  cause  some  surprise 
to  those  who  have  understood  the  spirit  of  the  house- 
hold, where  a  single  idea  tinged  with  poetry  would  have 
contrasted  sharply  with  the  beings  and  with  the  things 
therein  contained,  and  where  no  one  was  able  to  give  a 
look  or  gesture  that  was  not  seen  and  analj'zed.  And 
yet,  as  it  happened,  nothing  was  reall}^  more  natural. 
The  tranquil  vessel  which  navigated  the  seas  of  Parisian 
commerce  under  the  flag  of  the  Cat-playing-ball,  was  at 
this  particular  moment  tossed   about  in  one  of  those 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  86 

storms  which  may  be  called  equinoctial,  on  account  of 
their  periodical  return. 

For  the  last  fifteen  da\-s  the  five  men  of  the  establish- 
ment, with  Madame  Guillaume  and  Mademoiselle  Vir- 
ginie,  had  devoted  themselves  to  that  severe  toil  whicli 
goes  by  the  name  of  "  taking  an  inventory."  All  bales 
were  undone,  and  the  length  of  each  piece  of  goods  was 
measured,  to  learn  the  exact  value  of  what  remained  on 
hand.  The  card  attached  to  each  piece  was  carefully 
examined  to  know  how  long  the  different  goods  had 
been  in  stock.  New  prices  were  affixed.  Monsieur 
Guillaume,  alwa3's  standing  up,  3-ard-measure  in  hand, 
his  pen  behind  his  ear,  was  like  a  captain  in  command 
of  a  ship.  His  sharp  voice,  passing  down  a  hatchway' 
to  the  ware-rooms  below,  rang  out  that  barbarous 
jargon  of  commerce  expressed  in  enigmas:  "How 
many  H-N-Z  ? "  "  Take  it  away !  "  "  How  much  left 
of  Q-X?"  "Two  yards."  "What  price?"  "Five- 
five-three."  "  Put  at  three  A  all  J-J,  all  M-P,  and  the 
rest  of  V-D-0."  A  thousand  other  such  phrases,  all 
equally  intelligible,  resounded  across  the  counters,  like 
those  verses  of  modern  poetry  which  the  romanticists 
recite  to  each  other  to  keep  up  their  enthusiasm  for  a 
favorite  poet.  At  night  Monsieur  Guillaume  locked 
himself  and  his  head-clerk  and  his  wife  into  the  count- 
ing-room, went  over  the  books,  opened  the  new  accounts, 
notified  the  dilatory  debtors,  and   made  out  all   bills. 


36  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

The  results  of  this  immense  toil,  which  could  be  noted 
down  on  one  sheet  of  foolscap  paper,  proved  to  the 
house  of  Guillaume  that  it  owned  so  much  in  monej',  so 
much  in  merchandise,  so  much  in  notes  and  cheques ; 
also  that  it  did  not  owe  a  sou,  but  that  so  many  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  were  owing  to  it ;  that  its  capital 
had  increased ;  that  its  farms,  houses,  and  stocks  were 
to  be  enlarged,  repaired,  or  doubled.  Hence  came  a 
sense  of  the  necessity  of  beginning  once  more  with 
renewed  ardor  the  accumulation  of  more  money ; 
though  none  of  these  brave  ants  ever  thought  of  ask- 
ing themselves,  "What's  the  good  of  it?" 

Thanks  to  this  annual  tumult,  the  happ}'  Augustine 
was  able  to  escape  the  observation  of  her  Arguses.  At 
last,  one  Saturday  evening,  the  "  taking  of  the  inven- 
tory "  was  an  accomplished  fact.  The  figures  of  the 
total  assets  showed  so  many  ciphers  that  in  honor  of 
the  occasion  Monsieur  Guillaume  removed  the  stern 
embargo  which  reigned  throughout  the  ^-ear  at  des- 
sert. The  sly  old  draper  rubbed  his  hands  and  told  the 
clerks  they  might  remain  at  table.  They  had  hardly 
swallowed  their  little  glass  of  a  certain  home-made 
liqueur,  however,  when  carriage-wheels  were  heard  in 
the  street.  The  family  were  going  to  the  Varietes  to 
see  "  Cinderella,"  while  the  two  younger  clerks  each 
received  six  francs  and  permission  to  go  where  they 
liked,  provided  they  were  at  home  by  midnight. 


I 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  37 

The  next  morning,  in  spite  of  this  debauch,  the  old 
merchant-draper  shaved  at  six  o'clock,  put  on  his  flne 
maroon  coat,  —  the  lustre  of  its  cloth  causing  him,  as 
usual,  much  satisfaction,  —  fastened  his  gold  buckles  to 
the  knee-band  of  his  ample  silk  breeches,  and  then, 
toward  seven  o'clock,  while  every  one  in  the  house  was 
still  asleep,  he  went  to  the  little  office  adjoining  the 
shop  on  the  first  floor.  It  was  lighted  by  a  window 
protected  by  thick  iron  bars,  and  looked  out  upon  a  lit- 
tle square  court  formed  by  walls  so  black  that  the  place 
was  like  a  well.  The  old  merchant  opened  an  inner 
blind  that  was  clamped  with  iron,  and  raised  a  sash  of 
the  window.  The  chill  air  of  the  court  cooled  the  hot 
atmosphere  of  the  office,  which  exhaled  an  odor  peculiar 
to  all  such  places.  Monsieur  Guillaume  remained  stand- 
ing, one  hand  resting  on  the  greas}'  arm  of  a  cane-chair 
covered  with  morocco,  the  primitive  color  of  which  was 
now  effaced  ;  he  seemed  to  hesitate  to  sit  down.  The  old 
man  glanced  with  a  softened  air  at  the  taU  double  desk, 
where  his  wife's  seat  was  arranged  exactly  opposite  to 
his  own,  in  a  little  arched  alcove  made  in  the  wall. 
He  looked  at  the  numbered  paper-boxes,  the  twine,  the 
various  utensils,  the  irons  with  which  they  marked  the 
cloth,  the  safe, — all  objects  of  immemorial  origin, — 
and  he  fancied  himself  standing  before  the  evoked  shade 
of  the  late  Chevrel.  He  pulled  out  the  ver}'  stool  on 
which  he  formerly  sat  in  presence  of  his  now  defunct 


38  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

master.  That  stool,  covered  with  black  leather,  from 
which  the  horsehair  had  long  oozed  at  the  corners  (but 
without  falling  out),  he  now  placed  with  a  trembling 
hand  on  the  particular  spot  where  his  predecessor  had 
once  placed  it;  then,  with  an  agitation  difficult  to  de- 
scribe, he  pulled  a  bell  which  rang  at  the  bed's  head  of 
Joseph  Lebas,  When  that  decisiA^e  deed  was  done,  the 
old  man,  to  whom  these  memories  may  have  been  op- 
pressive, took  out  three  or  four  bills  of  exchange  which 
had  been  presented  to  him  the  da}'  before,  and  was 
looking  them  over,  but  without  seeing  them,  when 
Joseph  Lebas  entered  the  office. 

"  Sit  there,"  said  Monsieur  Guillaume,  pointing  to 
the  stool. 

As  the  old  master-draper  had  never  before  allowed  a 
clerk  to  sit  in  his  presence,  Joseph  trembled. 

"What  do  you  think  of  these  drafts?  "  asked  Guil- 
laume. 

"  They  will  not  be  paid." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  heard  yesterday  that  Etienne  and  Company  were 
making  their  payments  in  gold." 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  "  cried  the  draper.  "  They  must  be  very 
ill  to  show  their  bile.  Let  us  talk  of  something  else, 
Joseph  ;  the  inventory  is  finished  ?  " 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  and  the  dividend  is  the  finest  yon 
have  ever  had." 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  39 

"  Pray  don't  use  those  ncw-fanglod  words.  Sa}' 
'  proceeds,'  Joseph.  Do  you  know,  my  boy,  that  we 
owe  that  result  partly  to  3'ou?  Therefore,  I  do  not 
wish  you  to  have  a  salary  any  longer.  Madame  Guil- 
laume  has  put  it  into  my  head  to  offer  3'ou  a  share  in 
the  business.  Hey,  Joseph,  what  do  you  say  ?  'Guil- 
laume  and  Lebas,' —  don't  the  names  make  a  fine  part- 
nership ?  and  we  can  add  '  and  Company '  to  complete 
the  signature." 

Tears  came  into  .Joseph's  e3'es,  though  he  tried  to 
hide  them.  "  Ah,  Monsieur  Guillaume,"  he  said,  "  how 
have  I  deserved  such  goodness  ?  I  have  onl}'  done  my 
duty'.  It  was  enough  that  you  should  even  take  an 
interest  in  a  poor  orph  —  " 

He  brushed  the  cuff  of  his  left  sleeve  with  his  right 
sleeve,  and  dared  not  look  at  the  old  man,  who  smiled 
as  he  thought  that  this  modest  3'oung  fellow  no  doubt 
needed,  as  he  himself  once  needed,  to  be  helped  and 
encouraged  to  make  the  explanation  complete. 

"It  is  true,  Joseph,"  said  Virginie's  father,  "  that 
you  do  not  quite  deserve  that  favor.  You  do  not  put 
as  much  confidence  in  me  as  I  do  in  j'ou"  (here  the 
clerk  looked  up  hurriedly).  "You  know  my  secrets. 
For  the  last  two  years  I  have  told  j'ou  aU  about  the 
business.  I  have  sent  you  travelling  to  the  manufac- 
tories. I  have  nothing  to  reproach  myself  with  as  to 
you.     But  3'OU !     You  have  a  liking  in  your  mind,  and 


40  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

yon  have  never  said  a  word  to  me  about  it"  (Josepli 
colored).  "  Ha !  ha ! "  cried  Guillaume,  "  so  you  thouglit 
3'ou  could  deceive  an  old  fox  like  me  ?  Me  !  when  you 
knew  how  I  predicted  the  Lecocq  failure  !  " 

"Oh,  monsieur!"  replied  Joseph  Lebas,  examining 
his  master  as  attentively  as  his  master  examined  him, 
"  is  it  possible  that  you  know  whom  I  love?  " 

"I  know  all,  you  good-for-nothing  fellow,"  said  the 
worthy  and  astute  old  dealer,  twisting  the  lobe  of  the 
young  man's  ear ;  "  and  I  forgive  it,  for  I  did  as  much 
myself." 

"  Will  3'ou  give  her  to  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  with  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs,  and 
I  will  leave  you  as  much  more ;  and  we  will  meet  our 
new  expenses  under  the  new  firm  name.  Yes,  boy,  we 
will  stir  up  the  business  finel}'  and  put  new  life  into  it," 
cried  the  old  merchant,  rising  and  gesticulating  with 
his  arms.  "  There  is  nothing  like  business,  son-in-law. 
Those  who  sneer  and  ask  what  pleasures  can  be  found 
in  it  are  simply  fools.  To  have  the  cue  of  money-mat- 
ters, to  know  how  to  govern  the  market,  to  wait  with 
the  anxiety  of  gamblers  till  Etienne  and  Company  fail,  I 

to  see  a  regiment  of  Guards  go  by  with  our  cloth  on 
their  backs,  to  trip  up  a  neighbor,  —  honestly,  of 
course,  —  to  manufacture  at  a  lower  price  than  oth- 
ers, to  follow  up  an  affair  when  we  've  planned  it,  to 
watch  it  begin,  increase,  totter,  and  succeed,  to  under- 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  41 

stand,  like  the  miuister  of  police,  all  the  wa^'s  and 
means  of  all  the  commercial  houses  so  as  to  make  no 
false  step,  to  stand  up  straight  when  others  are  wrecked 
and  ruined,  to  have  friends  and  correspondents  in  all  the 
manufacturing  towns  and  cities  —  Ha,  Joseph  !  is  n't 
that  perpetual  pleasure  ?  I  call  that  living !  Yes,  and 
I  shall  die  in  that  bustle  like  old  Chevrel  himself." 

In  the  heat  of  his  allocution  Pere  Guillaume  scarcely 
looked  at  his  clerk,  who  was  weeping  hot  tears ;  when 
he  did  so  he  exclaimed,  "  Hej-,  Joseph,  my  poor  boy, 
what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

•'  Ah !  I  love  her  so,  Monsieur  Guillaume,  that  my 
heart  fails  me,  I  believe." 

"  "Well,  my  boy,"  said  the  old  man,  quite  moved, 
"3'ou  are  happier  than  you  think  you  are  ;  for,  by  the 
powers,  she  loves  you.     1  know  it ;  yes,  I  do  !  " 

And  he  winked  his  two  little  green  eyes  as  he  looked 
at  Joseph. 

"Mademoiselle  Augustine!  Mademoiselle  Augus- 
tine !  "  cried  Joseph  Lebas  in  his  excitement.  He  was 
about  to  rush  out  of  the  office  when  he  felt  himself 
grasped  by  an  iron  arm,  and  his  astonished  master 
pulled  him  vigorously  in  front  of  him. 

"What  has  Augustine  got  to  do  with  it?"  asked 
Guillaume,  in  a  voice  that  froze  the  unfortunate  young 
man. 

"  It  is  she  —  whom  —  I  love,"  stammered  the  clerk. 


42  Fame  and  Sorroiv. 

Disconcerted  at  his  own  lack  of  perspicacity,  Guil- 
laume  sat  down  and  put  his  pointed  head  into  his  two 
hands  to  reflect  upon  the  queer  position  in  which  he 
found  himself.  Joseph  Lebas,  ashamed,  mortified,  and 
despairing,  stood  before  him, 

"Joseph,"  said  the  merchant,  with  cold  dignit}-,  "I 
was  speaking  to  yon  of  Virginie.  Love  is  not  to  be 
commanded ;  I  know  that.  I  trust  your  discretion ; 
we  will  forget  the  whole  matter.  I  shall  never  allow 
Augustine  to  be  married  before  Vu-ginie.  Your  interest 
in  the  business  will  be  ten  per  cent." 

The  head-clerk,  in  whom  love  inspired  a  mysterious 
degree  of  courage  and  eloquence,  clasped  his  hands, 
opened  his  lips,  and  spoke  to  Guillaume  for  fifteen  min- 
utes with  such  ardor  and  deep  feeling  that  the  situation 
changed.  If  the  matter  had  concerned  some  business 
aflTair  the  old  man  would  have  had  a  fixed  rule  b}' 
which  to  settle  it ;  but  suddenly  cast  upon  the  sea  of 
feelings,  a  thousand  miles  from  business  and  without  a 
compass,  he  floated  irresolutely  before  the  wind  of  an 
event  so  "  out  of  the  wa}',"  as  he  kept  saj'ing  to  him- 
self. Influenced  by  his  natural  paternal  kindness,  he 
was  at  the  mercj'  of  the  waves. 

"Hey,  the  deuce,  Joseph,  you  know  of  course  that 
my  two  children  came  with  ten  years  between  them. 
Mademoiselle  Chevrel  was  not  handsome,  no ;  but  I 
never  gave  her  an^-  reason  to  complain  of  me.     Do  as 


1 


Fame  and  Sorro7iK  43 

I  (lid.  Conic,  don't  fret,  —  what  a  goose  3-ou  aro ! 
Perhaps  we  can  manage  it ;  I'll  try.  There  's  always 
some  way  to  do  a  thing.  We  men  are  not  exactly 
Celadons  to  our  wives, — you  understand,  don't  you? 
Madame  Guillaume  is  pious,  and —  There,  there,  my 
bo}',  you  ma}'  give  Augustine  your  arm  this  morning 
when  we  go  to  mass."  , 

Such  were  the  sentences  which  Pere  Guillaume  scat- 
tered at  random.  The  last  of  them  filled  the  lover's 
soul  with  joy.  He  was  alread}'  thinking  of  a  friend 
who  would  do  for  Mademoiselle  Virginie  as  he  left  the 
smoky  office,  after  pressing  the  hand  of  his  future 
father-in-law  and  saying,  in  a  confidential  way,  that  it 
would  all  come  right. 

"What  will  Madame  Guillaume  say?"  That  idea 
was  terribl}'  harrassing  to  the  worthy  merchant  when 
he  found  himself  alone. 

At  breakfast,  Madame  Guillaume  and  Virginie,  whom 
the  draper  had  left,  provision  all}-,  in  ignorance  of  her 
disappointment,  looked  at  Joseph  with  so  much  mean- 
ing that  he  became  greatly  embarrassed.  His  modesty 
won  him  the  good-will  of  his  future  mother-in-law. 
The  matron  grew  so  livel}'  that  she  looked  at  Monsieur 
Guillaume  with  a  smile,  and  allowed  herself  a  few  little 
harmless  pleasantries  customary  from  time  immemorial 
in  such  innocent  families.  She  discussed  the  relative 
heights  of  Joseph  and  Virginie,  and  placed  them  side 


44  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

by  side  to  be  measured.  These  little  follies  brought  a 
cloud  to  the  paternal  brow  ;  in  fact,  the  head  of  the 
family  manifested  such  a  sense  of  decorum  that  he 
ordered  Augustine  to  take  the  arm  of  his  head-clerk  on 
their  way  to  church.  Madame  Guillaume,  surprised  at 
so  much  masculine  delicacy,  honored  her  husband's  act 
with  an  approving  nod.  The  procession  left  the  house 
in  an  order  that  suggested  no  gossippiug  constructions 
to  the  neighbors. 

"Do  you  not  think,  Mademoiselle  Augustine,"  said 
the  head-clerk  in  a  trembling  voice,  "  that  the  wife  of  a 
merchant  in  high  standing,  like  Monsieur  Guillaume 
for  example,  ought  to  amuse  herself  rather  more  than 
—  than  your  mother  amuses  herself  ?  She  ought  surely 
to  wear  diamonds,  and  have  a  carriage.  As  for  me,  if 
I  should  ever  marry  I  should  want  to  take  all  the  cares 
myself,  and  see  my  wife  happy ;  I  should  not  let  her  sit 
at  any  counter  of  mine.  You  see,  women  are  no  longer 
as  much  needed  as  they  used  to  be  in  draper's  shops. 
Monsieur  Guillaume  was  quite  right  to  do  as  he  did,  and 
besides,  Madame  likes  it.  But  if  a  wife  knows  how  to 
help  in  making  up  the  accounts  at  times,  and  looking 
over  the  correspondence ;  if  she  can  have  an  eye  to  a 
few  details  and  to  the  orders,  and  manage  her  household, 
so  as  not  to  be  idle,  that 's  enough.  As  for  me,  I  should 
always  wish  to  amuse  her  after  seven  o'clock,  when  the 
shop  is  closed.     I  should  take  her  to  the  theatre  and 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  45 

the  picture  galleries,  and  into  society,  —  but  you  are  not 

listening  to  me." 

"  Oh,  yes  I  am,  Monsieur  Joseph.  What  were  j'ou 
saying  about  painters?     It  is  a  noble  art." 

"  Yes,  I  know  one,  a  master  painter,  Monsieur  Lour- 
dois  ;  he  makes  mone}"." 

Thus  conversing,  the  family  reached  Saint-Leu ; 
there,  Madame  Guillaume  recovered  her  rights.  She 
made  Augustine,  for  the  first  time,  sit  beside  her ;  and 
Virgiuie  took  the  fourth  chair,  next  to  that  of  Lebas. 
During  the  sermon  all  went  well  with  Augustine  and  with 
Theodore,  who  stood  behind  a  column  and  prayed  to 
his  madonna  with  great  fervor  ;  but  when  the  Host  was 
raised,  Madame  Guillaume  perceived,  somewhat  tardily, 
that  her  daughter  Augustine  was  holding  her  prayer- 
book  upside  down.  She  was  about  to  scold  her  vigor- 
ouslj'  when,  suddenly  raising  her  veil,  she  postponed 
her  lecture  and  looked  in  the  direction  which  her  daugh- 
ter's eyes  had  taken.  With  the  help  of  her  spectacles, 
she  then  and  there  beheld  the  3'oung  aitist,  whose 
fashionable  clothes  bespoke  an  officer  of  the  a.\'my  on 
furlough  rather  than  a  merchant  belonging  to  the  neigh- 
borhood. It  is  difficult  to  imagine  the  wrath  of  Madame 
Guillaume,  who  flattered  herself  she  had  brought  up  her 
daughters  in  perfect  propriety,  on  detecting  this  clan- 
destine love  in  Augustine's  heart,  the  evils  of  which 
she  magnified  out    of   ignorance  and    prudery.     She 


46  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

concluded  instantly  that  her  daughter  was  rotten  to 
the  core. 

"In  the  first  place,  hold  your  book  straight,  made- 
moiselle," she  said  in  a  low  voice,  but  trembling  with 
anger ;  then  she  snatched  the  tell-tale  prayer-book,  and 
turned  it  the  right  way.  "  Don't  dare  to  raise  3'our 
eyes  off  those  prayers,"  she  added  ;  "  otherwise  you  will 
answer  for  it  to  me.  After  service,  your  father  and  I 
will  have  something  to  say  to  3'ou." 

These  words  were  like  a  thunderbolt  to  poor  Augus- 
tine. She  felt  like  fainting;  but  between  the  misery 
she  endured  and  the  fear  of  creating  a  disturbance  in 
church,  she  gathered  enough  courage  to  hide  her  suffer- 
ing. Yet  it  was  eas}'  enough  to  guess  the  commotion 
of  her  mind  by  the  way  the  book  shook  in  her  hands 
and  by  the  tears  which  fell  on  the  pages  as  she  turned 
them.  The  artist  saw,  from  the  incensed  look  which 
Madame  Guillaume  flung  at  him,  the  perils  which  threat- 
ened his  love,  and  he  left  the  church  with  rage  in  his 
heart,  determined  to  dare  all. 

"Go  to  your  room,  mademoiselle!"  said  Madame 
Guillaume  when  they  reached  home.  "  Don't  dare  to 
leave  it ;  you  will  be  called  when  we  want  you." 

The  conference  of  husband  and  wife  was  held  in 
secret,  and  at  first  nothing  transpired.  But  after  a 
while  Virginie,  who  had  comforted  her  sister  wilh 
many  tender  suggestions,  carried  her  kindness  so  far 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  47 

as  to  slip  down  to  the  door  of  her  mother's  bedroom, 
where  the  discussion  was  taking  place,  ho[)ing  to  over- 
hear a  few  sentences.  At  her  first  trii)  from  the  third 
to  the  second  floor  she  heard  hei  father  exclaim, 
"Madame,  do  you  wish  to  kill  your  daughter?" 

"  M}-  poor  dear,"  said  Virginie,  running  back  to  her 
disconsolate  sister,  "  papa  is  defending  you !  " 

"  What  will  they  do  to  Theodore  ? "  asked  the  inno- 
cent little  thing. 

Virginie  went  down  again  ;  but  this  time  she  staj'ed 
longer  ;  she  heard  that  Lebas  loved  Augustine. 

It  was  decreed  that  on  this  memorable  day  that 
usually  calm  house  should  become  a  hell.  Monsieur 
Guillaume  brought  Joseph  Lebas  to  the  verge  of  de- 
spair b}-  informing  him  of  Augustine's  attachment  to 
the  artist.  Lebas,  who  b}-  that  time  had  met  his  friend 
and  advised  him  to  ask  for  Mademoiselle  Virginie  in 
marriage,  saw  all  his  hopes  overthrown.  Virginie, 
overcome  by  the  discovery  that  Joseph  had,  as  it 
were,  refused  her,  was  taken  with  a  violent  headache. 
And  finally,  the  jar  between  husband  and  wife,  result- 
ing from  the  explanation  they  had  together,  when  for 
the  third  time  only  in  their  lives  the}-  held  different 
opinions,  made  itself  felt  in  a  reall}-  dreadful  manner. 
At  last,  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Augus- 
tine, pale,  trembhng,  and  with  red  eyes,  was  brought 
before  her  father  and  mother.     The  poor  child  related 


48  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

artlessh''  the  too  brief  story  of  her  love.  Reassured  by 
her  father,  who  promised  to  hear  her  through  in  silence, 
she  gathered  enough  courage  to  utter  the  name  of  her 
dear  Theodore  de  Sommervieux,  dwelling  with  some 
diplomacy  on  the  aristocratic  particle.  As  she  yielded 
to  the  hitherto  unknown  delight  of  speaking  out  her 
feelings,  she  found  courage  to  saj*  with  innocent  bold- 
ness that  she  loved  Monsieur  de  Sommervieux  and  had 
written  to  him,  adding,  with  tears  in  her  e3'es  :  "It 
would  make  me  unhappy  for  life  to  sacrifice  me  to  any 
one  else." 

"  But  Augustine,  j'ou  do  not  know  what  a  painter  is," 
cried  her  mother,  in  horror, 

"  Madame  Guillaume  !  "  said  the  old  father,  imposing 
silence  on  his  wife  —  "  Augustine,"  he  went  on,  "  artists 
are  generally'  poor,  half-starved  creatures.  The}-  squan- 
der what  the}'  have,  and  are  always  worthless.  I  know, 
for  the  late  Monsieur  Joseph  Vernet,  the  late  Monsieur 
Lekain,  and  the  late  Monsieur  Noverre  were  customers 
of  mine.  My  dear,  if  you  knew  the  tricks  that  very 
Monsieur  Noverre,  and  Monsieur  le  chevalier  de  Saint- 
Georges,  and  above  all.  Monsieur  Philidor  pla3'ed  upon 
m}'  predecessor  Pere  Chevrel !  The}'  are  queer  fellows, 
ver}'  queer.  The}-  all  have  a  glib  way  of  talking  and 
fine  manners.     Now  your  Monsieur  Sumer  —  Som —  " 

"De  Sommervieux,  papa." 

*'  Well,  so  be  it,  —  de  Sommervieux,  he  never  could 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  49 

be  as  charraing  with  you  as  Monsieur  le  chevalier  de 
Saint-Georges  was  with  me  the  day  I  obtained  a  con- 
suUir  sentence  against  him.  That's  how  it  was  with 
people  of  good-breeding  in  those  days." 

"But  papa,  Monsieur  Tht'odore  is  a  nobleman,  and 
he  writes  me  that  he  is  rich  ;  his  father  was  called  the 
Chevalier  de  Sommervieux  before  the  Revolution." 

At  these  words  Monsieur  Guillaume  looked  at  his  ter- 
rible better-half,  who  was  tapping  her  foot  and  keeping 
a  dead  silence  with  the  air  of  a  thwarted  woman  ;  she 
would  not  even  cast  her  indignant  ej'es  at  Augustine, 
and  seemed  determined  to  leave  the  whole  responsi- 
bility of  the  misguided  affair  to  Monsieur  Guillaume, 
inasmuch  as  her  advice  was  not  listened  to.  However, 
in  spite  of  her  apparent  phlegm,  she  could  not  refrain 
from  exclaiming,  when  she  saw  her  husband  playing 
such  a  gentle  part  in  a  catastrophe  that  was  not  com- 
mercial:  "  Reall}',  monsieur,  you  are  as  weak  as  j'our 
daughter,  but  —  " 

The  noise  of  a  carriage  stopping  before  the  door  in- 
terrupted the  reprimand  which  the  old  merchant  was 
dreading.  A  moment  more,  and  Madame  Eoguin  was 
in  the  middle  of  the  room  looking  at  the  three  actors  in 
the  domestic  drama. 

"  I  know  all,  cousin,"  she  said,  with  a  patronizing 
air 

If  Madame  Roguin  had  a  fault,  it  was  that  of  think- 
4 


50  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

ing  that  the  wife  of  a  Parisian  notary  could  play  the 
part  of  a  great  lady. 

"  I  know  all,"  she  repeated,  "  and  I  come  to  Noah's 
Ark  like  the  dove,  with  an  olive-branch,  —  I  read  that 
allegory  in  the  '  Genius  of  Christianity,' "  she  remarked, 
turning  to  Madame  Guillaume  ;  "  therefore  the  compari- 
son ought  to  please  you.  Let  me  tell  you,"  she  added, 
smiling  at  Augustine,  "  that  Monsieur  de  Sommervieux 
is  a  charming  man.  He  brought  me  this  morning  a 
portrait  of  myself,  done  with  a  masterly  hand.  It  is 
worth  at  least  six  thousand  francs." 

At  these  words  she  tapped  lightly  on  Monsieur  Guil- 
laume's  arm.  The  old  merchant  could  not  refrain  from 
pushing  out  his  lips  in  a  manner  that  was  peculiar  to 
him. 

"  I  know  Monsieur  de  Sommervieux  very  well,"  con- 
tinued the  dove.  "  For  the  last  fortnight  he  has  at- 
tended my  parties,  and  he  is  the  present  attraction  of 
them.  He  told  me  all  his  troubles,  and  I  am  here  on 
his  behalf.  I  know  that  he  adores  Augustine,  and  is 
determined  to  have  her.  Ah !  my  dear  cousin,  don't 
shake  j^our  head.  Let  me  tell  3'ou  that  he  is  about  to 
be  made  a  baron,  and  that  the  Emperor  himself,  on  the 
occasion  of  his  visit  to  the  Salon,  made  him  a  cheva- 
lier of  the  Legion  of  honor.  Roguin  is  now  his  notary 
and  knows  all  his  affairs.  Well,  I  can  assure  3'ou  t^iat 
Monsieur  de  Sommervieux  has  good,  sound  property 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  51 

which  brings  him  in  twelve  thousand  a  year.     Now,  the 
father-in-law  of  a  man  in  his  position  might  count  on 
becoming   something   of   importance,  —  mayor   of  the 
arrondissemcnt,    for   instance.      Don't  30U   remember 
how  Monsieur  Dupont  was  made  count  of  the  Empire 
and  senator  merel}'  because,  as  mayor,  it  was  his  duty 
to  congratulate  the  Emperor  on  his  entrance  to  Vienna? 
Yes,  yes,  this  marriage  must  take  place.     I  adore  the 
3'oung   man,    myself.     His   behavior  to   Augustine   la 
hardl}'  met  with  now-a-days  outside  of  a  novel.     Don't 
fret,  m}-  dear  child,  3'ou  will  be  happ}',  and  everybody 
will  Qwxy  3'Ou.   There  's  the  Duchesse  de  Carigliano,  she 
comes  to  my  parties  and  delights  in  Monsieur  de  Som- 
mervieux.     Gossiping  tongues  do  sa3'  she  comes  to  my 
house  onl3'  to  meet  him,  — just  as  if  a  duchess  of  3es- 
terda3-  was  out  of  place  in  the  salon  of  a  Chevrcl  whose 
famil3'  can  show  a  hundred  3'ears  of  good,  sound  bour- 
geoisie  behind  it.     Augustine,"   added   Madame    Ro- 
guin,  after  a  slight  pause,  "  I  have  seen  the  portrait. 
Heavens !    it  is  lovel3\     Did  you  know  the  Emperor 
had  asked  to  see  it?     He  said,  laughing,  to  the  vice- 
chamberlain,  that    if  he  had  many   women   like   that 
at  his  court  so   man3'  kings  would  flock  there  that  he 
could  easil3'  keep  the  peace  of  Europe.     Was  n't  that 
flattering?" 

The  domestic  storms  with  which  the  day  began  were 
something  like  those  of  nature,  for  the3'  were  followed 


52  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

lay  calm  and  serene  weather.  Madame  Eogiiin's  argu- 
ments were  so  seductive,  she  managed  to  pull  so  many 
cords  in  the  withered  hearts  of  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Guillaume  that  she  at  least  found  one  which  enabled  her 
to  carr}'  the  da^-.  At  this  singular  period  of  our  na- 
tional histor}^  commerce  and  finance  were  to  a  greater 
degree  than  ever  before  possessed  with  an  insane  desire 
to  ally  themselves  with  the  nobility,  and  the  generals 
of  the  Empire  profited  immensely  by  this  sentiment. 
Monsieur  Guillaume,  however,  was  remarkable  for  his 
opposition  to  this  curious  passion.  His  favorite  axioms 
were  that  if  a  woman  wanted  happiness  she  ought  to 
marr}-  a  man  of  her  own  class ;  that  persons  were  al- 
ways sooner  or  later  punished  for  trying  to  climb  too 
high ;  that  love  could  ill  endure  the  petty  annoyances  of 
home-life,  and  that  persons  should  look  onlj'  for  solid 
virtues  in  each  other ;  that  neither  of  the  married  pair 
should  know  more  than  the  other,  because  the  first 
requisite  was  complete  mutual  understanding ;  and  that 
a  husband  who  spoke  Greek  and  a  wife  who  spoke 
Latin  would  be  certain  to  die  of  hunger.  He  promul- 
gated that  last  remark  as  a  sort  of  proverb.  He  com- 
pared marriages  thus  made  to  those  old-fashioned  stuflTs 
of  silk  and  wool  in  which  the  silk  alwaj's  ended  b}'  wear- 
ing out  the  wool.  And  3'et,  there  was  so  much  vanity 
at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  that  the  prudence  of  the  pilot 
who  had  guided  with  such  wisdom  the  aflTairs  of  the 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  53 

Cat-playing-ball  succumbed  to  the  aggressive  volubil- 
ity of  Madame  Roguin,  The  stern  Madame  CJuilhuune 
was  the  first  to  derogate  from  her  principles  and  to  find 
in  her  daughter's  inclinations  an  excuse  for  so  doing. 
She  consented  to  receive  Monsieur  de  SommeiTieux  at 
her  house,  resolving  in  her  own  mind  to  examine  him 
rigorously. 

The  old  merchant  went  at  once  to  find  Joseph  Lebas 
and  explain  to  him  the  situation  of  things.  At  half- 
past  six  that  evening  the  dining-room  immortalized  by 
the  painter  contained  under  its  skylight  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Roguin,  the  j'oung  artist  and  his  charming 
Augustine,  Joseph  Lebas,  who  found  his  comfort  in  sub- 
mission, and  Mademoiselle  Virginie,  whose  headache 
had  disappeared.  Monsieur  and  Madame  Guillaume 
beheld  in  perspective  the  establishment  of  both  their 
daughters,  and  the  certaint}-  that  the  fortunes  of  the 
Cat-playing-ball  were  likely  to  pass  into  good  hands. 
Their  satisfaction  was  at  its  height  when,  at  dessert, 
Theodore  presented  to  them  the  marvellous  picture, 
representing  the  interior  of  the  old  shop  (which  they 
had  not  yet  seen),  to  which  was  due  the  happiness  of 
all  present. 

"  Is  n't  it  pretty !  "  cried  Monsieur  Guillaume  ;  "  and 
they  give  you  thirt}'  thousand  francs  for  it?" 

"  Wh}',  there  are  m^-  lappets!"  exclaimed  Madame 
Guillaume. 


54  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

"And  the  goods  unfolded!"  added  Lebas ;  "you 
might  take  them  in  your  hand." 

"All  kinds  of  stuffs  are  good  to  paint,"  replied  the 
painter.  "We  should  be  only  too  happy,  we  modern 
artists,  if  we  could  approach  the  perfection  of  ancient 
draperies." 

"Ha!  so  you  like  drapery?"  cried  Pere  Guillaume. 
"  Shake  hands,  my  young  friend.  If  you  value  com- 
merce we  shall  soon  understand  each  other.  Why,  in- 
deed, should  persons  despise  it?  The  world  began 
with  trade,  for  didn't  Adam  sell  Paradise  for  an 
apple?  It  did  not  turn  out  a  very  good  speculation, 
by  the  bye  !  " 

And  the  old  merchant  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh,  ex- 
cited by  the  champagne  which  he  was  circulating  liber- 
ally. The  bandage  over  the  eyes  of  the  young  lover 
was  so  thick  that  he  thought  his  new  parents  very 
agreeable.  He  was  not  above  amusing  them  with  a 
few  little  caricatures,  all  in  good  taste.  He  pleased 
every  one.  Later,  when  the  party  had  dispersed,  and 
the  salon,  furnished  in  a  wa}^  that  was  ' '  rich  and 
warm,"  to  use  the  draper's  own  expression,  was  de- 
serted, and  while  Madame  Guillaume  was  going  about 
from  table  to  table  and  from  candelabra  to  candlestick, 
hastily  blowing  out  the  lights,  the  worthy  merchant 
who  could  see  clearh'^  enough  when  it  was  a  question 
of  money  or  of  business,  called  his  daughter  Augus- 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  55 

tine,   and,    placing   her    on   his   knee,   made    her  the 
following  harangue :  — 

"  M}'  dear  child,  you  shall  mam'  your  Sommcrvicux 
since  yon  wish  it ;  I  give  you  permission  to  risk  3'oiir 
capital  of  happiness.  But  I  am  not  taken  in  b}'  those 
thirty  thousand  francs,  said  to  be  earned  by  spoiling 
good  canvas.  Money  that  comes  so  quickly  goes  as 
quickly.  Didn't  I  hear  that  young  scatterbrain  saj^  this 
ver}-  evening  that  if  money  was  coined  round  it  was 
meant  to  roll?  Ha!  if  it  is  round  for  spendthrifts,  it 
is  flat  for  economical  folks  who  pile  it  up.  Now,  my 
child,  your  handsome  j-outh  talks  of  giving  you  car- 
riages and  diamonds.  If  he  has  monej-  and  chooses 
to  spend  it  on  you,  bene  sit ;  I  have  nothing  to  say. 
But  as  to  what  I  shall  give  you,  I  don't  choose  that  any 
of  my  hard-earned  money  shall  go  for  carriages  and 
trumpery.  He  who  spends  too  much  is  never  rich. 
Your  dowr}'  of  three  hundred  thousand  francs  won't 
buy  all  Paris,  let  me  tell  you  ;  and  j-ou  need  n't  reckon 
on  a  few  hundred  thousand  more,  for  I  '11  make  you 
wait  for  them  a  long  time  yet,  God  willing !  So  I  took 
your  lover  into  a  corner  and  talked  to  him  ;  and  a  man 
who  manoeuvred  the  failure  of  Lecocq  did  n't  have  much 
trouble  in  getting  an  ai'tist  to  agree  that  his  wife's  prop- 
erty should  be  settled  on  herself.  I  shall  have  an  e3-e 
to  the  contract  and  see  that  he  makes  the  proper  settle- 
ments upon  you.     Now,  m}'  dear,  I  hope  you  '11  make 


5Q  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

me  a  grandfather,  and  for  that  reason,  faith,  I  'ra  be- 
ginning to  think  about  m}'  grandchildren.  Swear  to  me, 
therefore,  that  jou  will  not  sign  any  paper  about  money 
without  first  consulting  me  ;  and  if  I  should  go  to  rejoin 
Pere  Chevrel  too  soon,  promise  me  to  consult  Lebas, 
who  is  to  be  your  brother-in-law.  Will  3'ou  promise 
and  swear  these  two  things?" 

"Oh,  3-es,  papa,  I  swear  it." 

At  the  words,  uttered  in  a  tender  voice,  the  old  man 
kissed  his  daughter  on  both  cheeks.  That  night  all  the 
lovers  slept  as  peacefully  as  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Guillaume. 

A  few  months  after  that  memorable  Sunday  the  high 
altar  of  Saint-Leu  witnessed  two  marriages  very  unlike 
each  other.  Augustine  and  Theodore  approached  it 
beaming  with  happiness,  their  eyes  full  of  love,  ele- 
ganth'  attired,  and  attended  by  a  brilHant  company. 
Virginie,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  father,  followed 
her  young  sister  in  humbler  guise,  like  a  shadow  needed 
for  the  harmon}'  of  the  picture.  Monsieur  Guillaume 
had  taken  infinite  pains  to  so  arrange  the  wedding  that 
Virginie's  marriage  should  take  precedence  of  Augus- 
tine's ;  but  he  had  the  grief  of  seeing  that  the  higher 
and  lesser  clergy  one  and  all  addressed  the  younger 
and  more  elegant  of  the  brides  first.  He  overheard 
some  of  his  neighbors  highly  commending  Mademoiselle 


( 


Fame  and  Sorrotv.  57 

Virginie's  good  sense  in  making,  as  they  said,  a  solid 
marriage  and  remaining  faithful  to  "  the  quarter  ;  "  and 
he  also  overheard  a  few  sneers,  prompted  by  envy, 
about  Augustine  who  had  chosen  to  marry  an  artist,  a 
nobleman,  coupled  with  a  pretended  fear  that  if  the 
Guillaumes  were  becoming  ambitious  the  draper's  trade 
was  ruined.  When  an  old  dealer  in  fans  declared  that 
the  young  spendthrift  would  soon  bring  his  wife  to 
poverty.  Monsieur  Guillaume  congratulated  himself  in 
peito  for  his  prudence  as  to  the  marriage  settlements. 

That  night,  after  an  elegant  ball  followed  by  one  of 
those  sumptuous  suppers  that  are  almost  forgotten  b}' 
the  present  generation,  IMonsieur  and  Madame  Guil- 
laume remained  at  a  house  belonging  to  tlicm  in  the  rue 
du  Colombier,  where  the  wedding  part}'  took  place,  and 
•where  the}'  intended  to  live  in  future ;  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Lebas  returned  in  a  hired  coach  to  the  rue 
Saint-Denis  and  took  the  helm  of  the  Cat-pla}ing-ball ; 
■while  the  artist,  intoxicated  with  his  happiness,  caught 
his  dear  Augustine  in  his  arms  as  their  coupe  reached 
the  rue  des  Trois-Freres,  and  carried  her  to  an  apart- 
ment decorated  with  the  treasures  of  all  the  arts. 

The  raptures  of  passion  to  which  Theodore  now  de- 
livered himself  up  carried  the  young  household  through 
one  whole  year  without  a  single  cloud  to  dim  the  blue 
of  the  sky  beneath  which  they  lived.  To  such  lovers 
existence  brought  no  burden  ;  each  day  some  new  and 


i 


58  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

exquisite  fioriture  of  pleasure  were  evolved  by  Theo- 
dore, who  delighted  in  varying  the  transports  of  love 
with  the  soft  languor  of  those  moments  of  repose  when 
souls  float  upward  into  ecstasy  and  there  forget  cor- 
poreal union,  Augustine,  wholly  incapable  of  reflec- 
tion, gave  herself  up  to  the  undulating  current  of  her 
happiness ;  she  felt  she  could  not  yield  too  much  to 
the  sanctioned  and  sacred  love  of  marriage ;  simple 
and  artless,  she  knew  nothing  of  the  coquetry  of  denial, 
still  less  of  the  ascendency  a  3'oung  girl  of  rank  obtains 
over  a  husband  by  clever  caprices ;  she  loved  too  well 
to  calculate  the  future,  and  never  once  imagined  that 
so  enchanting  a  life  could  come  to  an  end.  Happy  in 
being  all  the  life  and  all  the  joy  of  her  husband,  she 
believed  his  inextinguishable  love  would  forever  crown 
her  with  the  noblest  of  wreaths,  just  as  her  devotion 
and  her  obedience  would  remain  a  perpetual  attraction. 
In  fact,  the  felicity  of  love  had  made  her  so  brilliant  that 
her  beauty  filled  her  with  pride  and  inspired  her  with  a 
sense  that  she  could  always  reign  over  a  man  so  easy 
to  impassion  as  Monsieur  de  Sommervieux.  Thus  her 
womanhood  gave  her  no  otlier  instructions  than  those 
of  love.  In  the  bosom  of  her  happiness  she  was  still 
the  ignorant  little  girl  who  lived  obscurely  in  the  rue 
Saint-Denis,  with  no  thought  of  acquiring  the  manners, 
or  the  education,  or  the  tone  of  the  world  in  which  she 
was  to  live.     Her  words  were  the  words  of  love,  and 


Fame  and  Sorrotv.  59 

thoi'G,  indeed,  she  did  display  a  certain  suppleness  of 
mind  and  delicacy  of  expression  ;  but  she  was  using  a 
language  common  to  all  womankind  when  plunged  into 
a  passion  which  seems  their  clement.  If,  b}'  chance, 
Augustine  gave  utterance  to  some  idea  that  jarred  with 
those  of  Theodore,  the  artist  laughed,  just  as  we  laugh 
at  the  first  mistakes  of  a  stranger  speaking  our  lan- 
guage, though  they  wear}^  us  if  not  corrected. 

In  spite  of  all  this  ardent  love,  Sommervieux  felt,  at 
the  end  of  a  year  as  enchanting  as  it  had  been  rapid, 
the  need  of  going  back  to  his  work  and  his  old  habits. 
Moreover,  his  wife  was  eiiceinte.  He  renewed  his  rela- 
tions with  his  friends.  During  the  long  3'car  of  physical 
suffering,  when,  for  the  first  time,  a  young  wife  carries 
and  nurses  an  infant,  he  worked,  no  doubt,  with  ardor ; 
but  occasionall}'  he  returned  for  some  amusement  to  the 
distractions  of  society.  The  house  to  which  he  pre- 
ferred to  go  was  that  of  the  Duchesse  de  Carigliano, 
who  had  finally  attracted  the  now  celebrated  artist  to 
her  parties. 

When  Augustine  recovered,  and  her  son  no  longer 
required  assiduous  cares  which  kept  his  mother  from 
social  life,  Theodore  had  reached  a  point  where  self- 
love  roused  in  him  a  desire  to  appear  before  the  world 
with  a  beautiful  woman  whom  all  men  should  envy  and 
admire.  The  delight  of  showing  herself  in  fashionable 
salons  decked  with  the  fame  she  derived  from  her  hus- 


60  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

band,  vas  to  Augustine  a  new  harvest  of  pleasures,  but 
it  was  also  the  last  that  conjugal  happiness  was  to  bring 
her. 

She  began  bj  offending  her  husband's  vanit}' ;  for,  in 
spite  of  all  his  efforts,  her  ignorance,  the  incorrectness 
of  her  language,  and  the  narrowness  of  her  ideas,  viewed 
from  the  standpoint  of  her  present  surroundings,  were 
manifest.  The  character  of  de  Sommervieux,  held  in 
check  for  nearly  two  ^^ears  and  a  half  by  the  first  trans- 
ports of  love,  now  took,  under  the  calm  of  a  possession 
no  longer  fresh,  its  natural  bent,  and  he  returned  to  the 
habits  which  had  for  a  time  been  diverted  from  their 
course.  Poetry,  painting,  and  the  exquisite  enjoyments 
of  the  imagination  possess  inalienable  rights  over  minds 
that  can  rise  to  them.  These  needs  had  not  been  balked 
in  Theodore  during  those  two  and  a  half  3'ears  ;  they 
had  simply  found  another  nourishment.  When  the 
fields  of  love  were  explored,  when  the  artist,  like  the 
children,  had  gathered  the  roses  and  the  wake-robins 
with  such  eagerness  that  he  did  not  notice  his  hands 
were  full,  the  scene  changed.  It  now  happened  that 
when  the  artist  showed  his  wife  a  sketch  of  his  most 
beautiful  compositions,  he  took  notice  that  she  answered, 
in  the  tone  of  Monsieur  Guillaume,  "  Oh,  how  prett}' !  " 
Such  admiration,  without  the  slightest  warmth,  did  not 
come,  he  felt,  from  an  inward  feeling,  it  was  the  ex- 
pression of  blind  love.     Augustine  preferred  a  glance 


I 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  61 

of  love  to  the  nol)lost  work  of  art.  The  only  subliuiity 
she  was  able  to  perceive  was  that  in  her  own  heart. 

At  last  Theodore  could  not  blind  himself  to  the  evi- 
dence of  a  bitter  truth ;  his  wife  had  no  feeling  for 
poetr}' ;  she  could  not  live  in  his  sphere  of  thought ; 
she  could  not  follow  in  the  flight  of  his  caprices,  his 
impulses,  his  joys,  his  sorrows  ;  she  walked  the  earth 
in  a  real  world,  while  his  head  sought  the  heavens. 
Ordinar}^  minds  cannot  appreciate  the  ever-springing 
sufferings  of  one  who,  being  united  to  another  by  the 
closest  of  all  ties,  is  compelled  to  drive  back  within  his 
own  soul  the  precious  overflow  of  his  thoughts,  and  to 
crush  into  nothingness  the  images  which  some  magic 
force  compels  him  to  create.  To  such  a  one  the  tor- 
ture is  the  more  cruel  when  his  feeling  for  his  com- 
panion commands  him,  as  his  first  duty,  to  keep  nothing 
from  her,  neither  the  outcome  of  his  thoughts  nor  the 
effusions  of  his  soul.  The  will  of  nature  is  not  to  be 
evaded  ;  it  is  inexorable,  like  necessity,  which  is,  as  it 
were,  a  soi't  of  social  law.  Sommervieux  took  refuge  in 
the  silence  and  solitude  of  his  studio,  hoping  that  the 
liabit  of  living  among  artists  might  train  his  wife  and 
develop  the  benumbed  germs  of  mind  which  all  superior 
souls  believe  to  exist  in  other  souls. 

But,  alas,  Augustine  was  too  sincerely  religious  not 
to  be  frightened  at  the  tone  of  the  artist-world.  At  the 
first  dinner  given  by  Theodore,  a  young  painter  said  to 


62  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

her,  with  a  juvenile  light-heartedness  she  was  unable  to 
understand,  but  which  really  absolves  all  jests  about 
religion:  "Why,  madame,  3'our  paradise  is  not  as 
glorious  as  Raflfaelle's  Transfiguration,  but  I  get  a  little 
tired  of  looking  even  at  that."  Augustine,  conse- 
quently, met  this  brilliant  and  artistic  society  in  a 
spirit  of  disapproval,  which  was  at  once  perceived. 
She  became  a  constraint  upon  it.  When  artists  are 
constrained  they  are  pitiless ;  they  either  fly,  or  they 
sta}^  and  scoflT. 

Madame  Guillaume  had,  among  other  absurdities, 
that  of  magnifying  the  dignity  she  considered  to  be 
an  appanage  of  a  married  woman ;  and  though  Augus- 
tine had  often  laughed  about  it  she  was  unable  to  keep 
herself  fx'om  a  slight  imitation  of  the  maternal  prudery. 
This  exaggeration  of  purit}^,  which  virtuous  women  do 
not  alwa3's  escape,  gave  rise  to  a  few  harmless  carica- 
tures and  epigrams,  innocent  nonsense  in  good  taste, 
with  which  de  Sommervieux  could  scarcely  be  angry. 
In  fact,  such  jests  were  only  reprisals  on  the  part  of  his 
friends.  Still,  nothing  could  be  really  a  jest  to  a  soul 
so  ready  as  that  of  Theodore  to  receive  impressions 
from  without.  Thus  he  was  led,  perhaps  insensibly, 
to  a  coldness  of  feeling  which  went  on  increasing. 
Whoso  desires  to  reach  perfect  conjugal  happiness 
must  climb  a  mountain  along  a  narrow  way  close  to 
a  sharp  and    slippery  precipice  ;    down  that  precipice 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  63 

the  artist's  love  now  slid,  lie  believed  his  wife  in- 
capable of  understanding  the  moral  considerations 
which  justified,  to  his  mind,  the  course  he  now  adopted 
towards  her ;  and  he  thought  himself  innocent  in  hid- 
ing thoughts  she  could  not  comprehend,  and  in  doing 
acts  which  could  never  be  justified  before  the  tribunal 
of  her  commonplace  conscience. 

Augustine  retired  into  gloom}'  and  silent  sorrow. 
These  secret  feelings  drew  a  veil  between  the  married 
pair  which  grew  thicker  day  by  da}'.  Though  her  hus- 
band did  not  cease  his  attentions  to  her,  Augustine 
could  not  keep  from  trembling  when  she  saw  him  reserv- 
ing for  society  the  treasures  of  mind  and  charm  which 
he  had  hitherto  bestowed  on  her.  Soon  she  took 
fatall}'  to  heart  the  lively  talk  she  heard  in  the  world 
about  man's  inconstanc}'.  She  made  no  complaint,  but 
her  whole  bearing  was  equivalent  to  a  reproach.  Three 
years  after  her  marriage  this  j'oung  and  pretty  woman, 
who  seemed  so  brilliant  in  her  brilliant  equipage,  who 
lived  in  a  sphere  of  fame  and  wealth,  always  envied  by 
careless  and  unobserving  people  who  never  rightl}'  esti- 
mate the  situations  of  life,  was  a  prey  to  bitter  grief; 
her  color  faded  ;  she  reflected,  she  compared  ;  and  then, 
at  last,  sorrow  revealed  to  her  the  axioms  of  experience. 

She  resolved  to  maintain  herself  courageously  within 
the  circle  of  her  duty,  hoping  that  such  generous  con- 
duct would,  sooner  or  later,  win  back  her  husband's 


64  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

love  ;  but  it  was  not  to  be.  When  Sommervieux,  tired 
of  work,  left  bis  studio,  Augustine  never  hid  her  work 
so  quickly  that  the  artist  did  not  see  her  mending  the 
household  linen  or  his  own  with  the  minute  care  of  a  good 
housekeeper.  She  supplied,  generouslj'  and  witliout  a 
word,  the  money  required  for  her  husband's  extrava- 
gances ;  but  in  her  desire  to  save  her  dear  Theodore's 
own  fortune  she  was  too  economical  ou  herself  and  on 
certain  details  of  the  housekeeping.  Such  conduct  is 
incompatible  with  the  free  and  easy  ways  of  artists, 
who,  when  they  reach  the  end  of  their  tether,  have 
enjoyed  life  so  much  that  they  never  ask  the  reason 
of  their  ruin. 

It  is  useless  to  note  each  lowered  tone  of  color 
through  which  the  brillianc}'  of  their  honeymoon  faded 
and  then  expired,  leaving  them  in  deep  darkness. 
One  evening  poor  Augustine,  who  had  lately  heard  her 
husband  speaking  with  enthusiasm  of  the  Duchesse  de 
Carigliano,  received  some  ill-natured  information  on  the 
nature  of  de  Sommervieux's  attachment  to  that  cele- 
brated coquette  of  the  imperial  court.  At  twenty-one, 
in  the  glow  of  youth  and  beaut}',  Augustine  learned  she 
was  betrayed  for  a  woman  of  thirt^'-six.  Feeling  herself 
wretched  in  the  midst  of  society  and  of  fetes  that  were 
now  a  desert  to  her,  the  poor  little  creature  no  longer 
noticed  the  admiration  she  excited  nor  the  envy  she  in- 
spired.   Her  face  took  another  expression.    Sorrow  laid 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  65 

upon  each  feature  the  gentleness  of  resignation  and  the 
pallor  of  rejected  love.  It  was  not  long  before  men, 
known  for  their  seductive  powers,  courted  her ;  but  she 
remained  solitar}-  and  virtuous.  A  few  contemptuous 
words  which,  escaped  her  husband  brought  her  to  intol- 
erable despair.  Fatal  gleams  of  light  now  showed  her 
the  points  where,  through  the  pettiness  of  her  educa- 
tion, complete  union  between  her  soul  and  that  of 
Theodore  had  been  prevented ;  and  her  love  was  great 
enough  to  absolve  him  and  blame  herself  She  wept 
tears  of  blood  as  she  saw,  too  late,  that  there  are  ill- 
assorted  marriages  of  minds  as  well  as  of  habits  and  of 
ranks. 

Thinking  over  the  spring-tide  happiness  of  their 
union,  she  comprehended  the  fulness  of  her  past 
jo3's,  and  admitted  to  her  own  soul  that  so  rich  a 
harvest  of  love  was  indeed  a  lifetime  which  might 
well  be  paid  for  by  her  pi-esent  sorrow.  And  3-et  she 
loved  with  too  single  a  mind  to  lose  all  hope ;  and  she 
■was  brave  enough  at  one-and-twenty  to  endeavor  to 
educate  herself  and  make  her  imagination  more  woT'thy 
of  the  one  she  so  admired.  "  If  I  am  not  a  poet,"  she 
said  in  her  heart,  "at  least  I  will  understand  poetry." 
Employing  that  force  of  will  and  energy  which  all 
women  possess  when  they  love,  Madame  de  Sommer- 
vicux  attempted  to  change  her  nature,  her  habits,  and 
her  ideas ;  but  though   she   read   manj-   volumes   and 


66  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

studied  with  the  utmost  courage,  she  only  succeeded  in 
making  herself  less  ignorant.  Quickness  of  mind  and 
the  charms  of  conversation  are  gifts  of  nature  or  the 
fruits  of  an  education  begun  in  the  cradle.  She  could 
appreciate  music  and  enjoy  it,  but  she  could  not  sing 
with  taste.  She  understood  literature  and  even  the 
beauties  of  poetry,  but  it  was  too  late  to  train  her  re- 
bellious memory.  She  listened  with  interest  to  con- 
versation in  society,  but  she  contributed  nothing  to  it. 
Her  religious  ideas  and  the  prejudices  of  her  early 
youth  prevented  the  complete  emancipation  of  her  mind. 
And  besides  all  this,  a  bias  against  her  which  she  could 
not  conquer  had,  little  b}'  little,  gUded  into  her  hus- 
band's mind.  The  artist  laughed  in  his  heart  at  those 
who  praised  his  wife  to  him,  and  his  laughter  was  not 
unfounded.  Embarrassed  by  her  strong  desire  to  please 
him,  she  felt  her  mind  and  her  knowledge  melt  away  in 
Ms  presence.  Even  her  fidelit}^  displeased  the  unfaith- 
ful husband ;  it  seemed  as  though  he  would  fain  see 
her  guilty  of  wrong  when  he  complained  of  her  \irtue  as 
unfeehng.  Augustine  struggled  hard  to  abdicate  her 
reason,  to  yield  and  bend  to  the  fancies  and  caprices  of 
her  husband,  and  to  devote  her  whole  life  to  soothe  the 
egotism  of  his  vanity,  —  she  never  gathered  the  fruit  of 
her  sacrifices.  Perhaps  they  had  each  let  the  moment 
go  by  when  souls  can  comprehend  each  other.  The  day 
came  when  the  too-sensitive  heart  of  the  young  wife 


Fame  and  Sorroiu.  07 

received  a  blow,  —  one  of  those  shocks  which  strain 
the  tics  of  feeHng  so  far  that  it  seems  as  though  they 
snapped.  At  first  she  isolated  herself.  But  soon  the 
fatal  thought  entered  her  mind  to  seek  advice  and  con- 
solation from  her  own  ftxmily. 

Accordingly,  one  morning  earl}',  she  drove  to  the 
grotesque  entrance  of  the  silent  and  gloom}-  house  in 
which  her  childhood  had  been  passed.  She  sighed  as 
she  looked  at  the  window  from  which  she  had  sent  a 
first  kiss  to  him  who  had  filled  her  life  with  fame  and 
sorrow.  Nothing  was  changed  in  those  cavernous  pre- 
cincts, except  that  the  business  had  taken  a  new  lease 
of  life.  Augustine's  sister  sat  behind  the  counter  in 
her  mother's  old  place.  The  poor  afflicted  woman  met 
her  brother-in-law  with  a  pen  behind  his  ear,  and  he 
hardly  listened  to  her,  so  busy  was  he.  The  alarming 
signs  of  an  approaching  "  inventory"  were  evident,  and 
in  a  few  moments  he  left  her,  asking  to  be  excused. 

Her  sister  received  her  rather  coldl}',  and  showed 
some  ill-will.  In  fact,  Augustine  in  her  palm}'  days, 
brilliant  in  happiness  and  driving  about  in  a  pretty 
equipage,  had  never  come  to  see  her  sister  except  in 
passing.  The  wife  of  the  prudent  Lebas  now  imag- 
ined that  money  was  the  cause  of  this  early  visit,  and 
she  assumed  a  reserved  tone,  which  made  Augustine 
smile.  The  artist's  wife  saw  that  her  mother  had  a 
counterpart  (except  for  the  lappets  of  her  cap)  who 


68  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

would  keep  up  the  antique  dignity  of  the  Cat-pla}'- 
ing-ball.  At  breakfast,  however,  she  noticed  certain, 
changes  which  did  honor  to  the  good  sense  of  Joseph 
Lebas,  —  the  clerks  no  longer  rose  and  went  away  at 
dessert ;  they  were  allowed  to  use  their  faculty  of 
speech,  and  the  abundance  on  the  table  showed  ease 
and  comfort,  without  luxurj'.  The  3'oung  woman  of 
society'  noticed  the  coupons  of  a  box  at  the  Fran^ais, 
where  she  remembered  having  seen  her  sister  from 
time  to  time.  Madame  Lebas  wore  a  cashmere  shawl 
over  her  shoulders,  the  elegance  of  which  was  a  sign 
of  the  generosit}'  with  which  her  husband  treated 
her.  In  short,  the  pair  were  advancing  with  their 
century. 

Augustine  was  deeply  moved  to  see,  during  the 
course  of  the  day,  manj'  signs  of  a  calm  and  equable 
happiness  enjo3-ed  hy  this  well-assorted  couple,  —  a 
happiness  without  exaltation,  it  was  true,  but  also 
without  peril.  They  had  taken  life  as  a  commer- 
cial enterprise,  in  which  their  first  dut}'  was  to  honor 
their  business.  Not  finding  in  her  husband  any  great 
warmth  of  love,  Virginie  had  set  to  work  to  pro- 
duce it.  Led  insensibly  to  respect  and  to  cherish  his 
wife,  the  time  it  took  for  their  wedded  happiness  to 
blossom  now  seemed  to  Joseph  Lebas  as  a  pledge  of  its 
duration  ;  so,  when  the  sorrowful  Augustine  told  her 
tale  of  trouble,  she  was  forced  to  endure  a  deluge  of  the 


Fame  and  Sorroiv.  G'J 

commonplace  ideas  which  the  etliics  of  the  rue  Saint- 
Denis  suggested  to  Virginie. 

"  Tlie  evil  is  done,  wife,"  said  Joseph  Lebas  ;  "  we 
must  now  try  to  give  our  sister  the  best  advice." 
Whereupon,  the  able  man  of  business  ponderously  ex- 
plained tlie  relief  that  the  laws  and  established  customs 
might  give  to  Augustine,  and  so  enable  her  to  sur- 
mount her  troubles.  lie  numbered,  if  we  may  so 
express  it,  all  the  considerations ;  ranged  them  in 
categories,  as  though  they  were  goods  of  different 
qualities ;  then  he  put  them  in  the  scales,  weighed 
them,  and  finally  came  to  the  conclusion  that  necessity 
required  his  sister-in-law  to  take  a  firm  stand,  —  a 
decision  which  did  not  satisfy  the  love  she  still  felt 
for  her  husband,  a  feeling  that  was  reawakened  in  full 
force  when  she  heard  Lebas  discussing  judicial  methods 
of  asserting  her  rights.  Augustine  thanked  her  two 
friends  and  returned  home,  more  undecided  than  before 
she  consulted  them. 

The  next  day  she  ventured  to  the  house  in  the  rue 
du  Colombier,  intending  to  confide  her  sorrows  to  her 
father  and  mother,  for  she  was  like  those  hopelessly  ill 
persons  who  try  all  remedies  in  sheer  despair,  even  the 
recipes  of  old  women.  Monsieur  and  Madame  Gnil- 
laume  received  their  daughter  with  a  warmth  that 
touched  her ;  the  visit  brought  an  interest  which,  to 
them,  was  a  treasure.     For  four  years  they  had  floated 


70  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

on  the  sea  of  life  like  navigators  without  chart  or  com- 
pass. Sitting  in  their  chimney-corner,  i\\ey  told  each 
other  again  and  again  the  disasters  of  the  maximum  / 
the  story  of  their  first  purchases  of  cloth,  the  manner  in 
which  they  escaped  bankruptc}',  and  above  all,  the  tale 
of  the  famous  Lecocq  failure,  old  Guillaume's  battle  of 
Marengo.  Then,  when  these  stock  stories  were  ex- 
hausted, they  recapitulated  the  profits  of  their  most 
productive  j'ears,  or  reminded  each  other  of  the  gossip 
of  the  Saint-Denis  quarter.  At  two  o'clock  Pere  Guil- 
laume  invariably  went  out  to  give  an  eye  to  the  estab- 
lishment of  the  Cat-pla3'ing-ball ;  on  his  way  back  he 
stopped  at  all  the  shops  which  were  formerly  his  rivals, 
whose  3'oung  proprietors  now  endeavored  to  inveigle 
the  old  merchant  into  speculative  investments  which, 
according  to  his  usual  custom,  he  never  positively  de- 
clined. Two  good  Norman  horses  were  dying  of  pleth- 
ora in  the  stable,  but  Madame  Guillaume  never  used 
them  except  to  be  conveyed  on  Sundaj's  to  high  mass 
at  the  parish  church.  Three  times  a  week  the  worthy 
couple  kept  open  table. 

Thanks  to  the  influence  of  his  son-in-law,  de  Som- 
mervieux,  Pere  Guillaume  had  been  appointed  member 
of  the  advisory  committee  on  the  equipment  of  troops. 
Ever  since  her  husband  had  held  that  high  post  under 
government,  Madame  Guillaume  had  felt  it  her  dut}'  to 
maintain  its  dignity  ;  her  rooms  were  therefore  encum- 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  71 

bered  with  so  many  ornaments  of  gold  and  silver,  so 
much  tasteless  though  costly  furniture,  that  the  sim- 
plest of  them  looked  like  a  tawdry  chapel.  Economy 
and  prodigality  seemed  fighting  for  precedence  in  all 
the  accessories  of  the  house.  It  really  looked  as  if  old 
Guillaume  had  considered  the  purchase  of  everything  in 
it,  down  to  a  candlestick,  as  an  investment.  In  the 
midst  of  this  bazaar,  de  Sommervieux's  famous  picture 
held  the  place  of  honor,  and  was  a  source  of  consola- 
tion to  Monsieur  and  Madame  Guillaume,  who  turned 
their  spectacled  e^^es  twenty  times  a  da}'  on  that  tran- 
script of  their  old  life,  to  them  so  active  and  so 
exciting. 

The  appearance  of  the  house  and  of  these  rooms 
where  all  things  had  an  odor  of  old  age  and  mediocrit}', 
the  spectacle  of  the  two  old  people  stranded  on  a  rock 
far  from  the  real  world  and  the  ideas  that  move  it,  sur- 
prised and  affected  Augustine  ;  she  recognized  the  sec- 
ond half  of  the  picture  which  had  struck  her  so  forcibly 
at  the  house  of  Joseph  Lebas,  — that  of  an  active  life 
without  movement,  a  sort  of  mechanical  and  instinctive 
existence,  like  that  of  rolling  on  castors ;  and  there 
came  into  her  mind  a  sense  of  pride  in  her  sorrows  as 
she  remembered  how  they  sprang  from  a  happiness  of 
eighteen  months  duration,  worth  more  to  her  than  a 
thousand  existences  like  this,  the  void  of  which  now 
seemed  to  her  horrible.     But  she  hid  the  rather  un- 


72  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

kindly  thought,  and  displayed  her  new  qualities  of  mind 
to  her  old  parents  and  the  endearing  tenderness  which 
love  had  taught  her,  hoping  to  win  them  to  listen  favor- 
ably to  her  matrimonial  trials. 

Old  people  delight  in  such  confidences.  Madame 
Guillaume  wished  to  hear  the  minutest  particulars  of 
that  strange  life  which,  to  her,  was  almost  fabulous. 
"  The  Travels  of  the  Baron  de  La  Houtan,"  which  she 
had  begun  many  times  and  never  finished,  had  revealed 
to  her  nothing  more  inconceivable  among  the  savages 
of  Canada. 

"  But,  m}'  dear  child,"  she  said,  "  do  j'ou  mean  to 
say  that  j'our  husband  shuts  himself  up  with  naked 
women,  and  3'ou  are  simple  enough  to  believe  he  paints 
them  ?  "  With  these  words  she  laid  her  spectacles  on 
a  work-table,  shook  out  her  petticoats,  and  laid  her 
clasped  hands  on  her  knees,  raised  by  a  foot- warmer,  — 
her  favorite  attitude. 

"But,  m}'  dear  mother,  all  painters  are  obliged  to 
employ  models." 

"  He  took  care  not  to  tell  us  that  when  he  asked  3'ou 
in  marriage.  If  I  had  known  it  I  would  never  have 
given  my  daughter  to  a  man  with  such  a  trade.  Re- 
ligion forbids  such  horrors ;  they  are  immoral.  What 
time  of  night  do  you  sa}'  he  comes  home?  " 

"  Oh,  at  one  o'clock,  —  or  two,  perhaps."  | 

The  old  people  looked  at  each  other  in  amazement.  "^ 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  73 

"  Then  he  gambles,"  said  Monsieur  Guillaurae.  "  In 
mj  day  it  was  onl}-  gamblers  who  staj'ed  out  so  late." 

Augustine  made  a  little  face  to  deny  the  accusation. 

"You  must  suffer  dreadfully  waiting  for  him,"  said 
Madame  Guillaume.  "But  no,  30U  go  to  bed,  I  hope, 
—  don't  you  ?  Then  when  he  has  gambled  away  all  his 
money,  the  monster  comes  home  and  wakes  you  up?" 

"  No,  mother ;  on  the  contrar}',  he  is  sometimes  very 
gay ;  indeed,  when  the  weather  is  fine,  he  often  asks 
me  to  get  up  and  go  into  the  woods  with  him." 

"  Into  the  woods  !  —  at  that  hour?  Your  house  must 
be  ver}'  small  if  he  has  n't  room  enough  in  it  to  stretch 
his  legs !  No,  no,  it  is  to  give  you  cold  that  the  villain 
makes  such  proposals  as  that ;  he  wants  to  get  rid  of 
3"ou.  Did  any  one  ever  know  a  decent  man  with  a 
home  of  his  own  and  a  steady  business  galloping  round 
like  a  were- wolf !  " 

"  But,  m}'  dear  mother,  you  don't  understand  that  he 
needs  excitements  to  develop  his  genius.  He  loves  the 
scenes  which  —  " 

"  Scenes !  I  'd  make  hira  fine  scenes,  I  would,"  cried 
Madame  Guillaume,  interrupting  her  daughter.  "  How 
can  you  keep  on  any  terms  at  all  with  such  a  man  ? 
And  I  don't  like  that  idea  of  his  drinking  nothing  but 
water.  It  isn't  wholesome.  "Why  does  he  dislike  to 
see  women  eat?  what  a  strange  notion  !  He  's  a  mad- 
man, that's  what  he  is.    All  that  j'ou  sa}'  of  him  proves 


74  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

it.  No  sane  man  leaves  his  home  without  a  word,  and 
stays  away  ten  days.  He  told  3'ou  he  went  to  Dieppe 
to  paint  the  sea !  How  can  any  one  paint  the  sea  ?  He 
told  you  such  nonsense  to  blind  j'ou." 

Augustine  opened  her  lips  to  defend  her  husband, 
but  Madame  Guillaume  silenced  her  with  a  motion  of 
her  hand  which  the  old  habit  of  obedience  led  her  to 
obc}',  and  the  old  woman  continued,  in  a  sharp  voice  : 
"  Don't  talk  to  me  of  that  man.  He  never  set  foot  in 
a  church  except  to  marry  you.  Persons  who  have  no 
religion  are  capable  of  anj^thing.  Did  3'our  father  ever 
venture  to  hide  anything  from  me,  or  keep  silent  three 
da^'s  without  saying  boo  to  me,  and  then  begin  to  chatter 
like  a  blind  magpie  ?     No !  " 

"  My  dear  mother,  j'ou  judge  superior  men  too  se- 
verel}'.  If  the}'  had  ideas  like  other  people  they  would 
not  be  men  of  genius." 

"Well!  then  men  of  genius  should  keep  to  them- 
selves and  not  many.  Do  yoxx  mean  to  tell  me  that  a 
man  can  make  his  wife  miserable,  and  if  he  has  got 
genius  it  is  all  right  ?  Genius !  I  don't  see  much 
genius  in  saying  a  thing  is  black  and  white  in  the  same 
breath,  and  ramming  people's  words  down  their  throats, 
and  lording  it  over  his  famil}',  and  never  letting  his 
wife  know  how  to  take  him,  and  forbidding  her  to  amuse 
herself  unless  monsieur,  forsooth,  is  gay,  and  forcing 
her  to  be  gloom}'  as  soon  as  he  is  —  " 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  75 

"  But,  my  dear  mother,  the  reason  for  all  such 
imaginations  —  " 

"  Wliat  do  3'ou  mean  b}*  all  such  imaginations?" 
cried  Madame  Guillaume,  again  interrupting  her  daugh- 
ter. "He  has  fine  ones,  faith!  What  sort  of  man 
is  he  who  takes  a  notion,  without  consulting  a  doctor, 
to  eat  nothing  but  vegetables  ?  If  he  did  it  out  of  piety, 
such  a  diet  might  do  him  some  good ;  but  he  has  no 
more  religion  than  a  Huguenot.  Who  ever  saw  a  man 
in  his  senses  love  a  horse  better  than  he  loves  his  neigh- 
bor, and  have  his  hair  curled  like  a  pagan  image,  and 
cover  his  statues  with  muslin,  and  shut  up  the  windows 
in  the  daj-time  to  work  b}'  lamplight?  Come,  come, 
don't  talk  to  me  ;  if  he  were  not  so  grossly  immoral  he 
ought  to  be  put  in  the  msane  asylum.  You  had  better 
consult  Monsieur  Loraux,  the  vicar  of  Saint-Sulpice ; 
ask  him  what  he  thinks  of  all  this.  He'll  tell  you  that 
your  husband  does  n't  behave  like  a  Christian  man." 

"  Oh  !  mother,  how  can  j'ou  think  —  " 

"Think!  yes  I  do  think  it!  You  used  to  love  him 
and  therefore  you  don't  see  these  things.  But  I  re- 
member how  I  saw  him,  not  long  after  j'our  marriage, 
in  the  Champs-Elj-sees.  He  was  on  horseback.  Well, 
he  galloped  at  full  speed  for  a  little  distance,  then  he 
stopped  and  went  at  a  snail's  pace.  I  said  to  m3'self 
then,  '  There  's  a  man  who  has  no  sense.'  " 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  Monsieur  Guillaume,  rubbing  his  hands, 


76  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

"  what  a  good  thing  it  is  I  had  3our  property  settled  on 
j^ourself." 

After  Augustine  had  the  imprudence  to  explain  her 
real  causes  of  complaint  against  her  husband  the  two 
old  people  were  silent  with  indignation.  Madame  Guil- 
laume  uttered  the  word  "  divorce."  It  seemed  to  awaken 
the  now  inactive  old  business-man.  Moved  hj  his  love 
for  his  daughter  and  also  b}'  the  excitement  such  a  step 
would  give  to  his  eventless  life,  Pere  Guillaume  roused 
himself  to  action.  He  demanded  divorce,  talked  of 
managing  it,  argued  the  pros  and  cons,  and  promised 
his  daughter  to  pay  all  the  costs,  engage  the  lawj'ers, 
see  the  judges,  and  move  heaven  and  earth.  Madame 
de  Sommervieux,  much  alarmed,  refused  his  services 
declaring  she  would  not  separate  from  her  husband 
were  she  ten  times  more  unhappy  than  she  was,  and 
saying  no  more  about  her  sorrows.  After  the  old  peo- 
ple had  endeavored,  but  in  vain,  to  soothe  her  with 
manj^  little  silent  and  consoling  attentions,  Augustine 
went  home  feeling  the  impossibility  of  getting  narrow 
minds  to  take  a  just  view  of  superior  men.  She  learned 
then  that  a  wife  should  hide  from  all  the  world,  even 
from  her  parents,  the  sorrows  for  which  it  is  so  difficult 
to  obtain  true  sympath}-.  The  storms  and  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  higher  spheres  of  human  existence  are  com- 
prehended only  by  the  noble  minds  which  inhabit  them. 
In  all  things,  we  can  be  justl}'  judged  only  by  our  equals. 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  77 

Thus  poor  Augustine  found  herself  once  more  in  the 
cold  atmospliere  of  her  home,  cast  back  into  the  hor- 
rors of  her  lonely  meditations.  Study  no  longer  availed 
her,  for  study  had  not  restored  her  husband's  heart. 
Initiated  into  the  secrets  of  those  souls  of  fire  but 
deprived  of  their  resources,  she  entered  deepl}'  into 
their  trials  witliout  sharing  their  J03S.  She  became  dis- 
gusted with  the  world,  which  seemed  to  her  small  and 
pett}-  indeed  in  presence  of  events  born  of  passion. 
In  short,  life  to  her  was  a  failure. 

One  evening  a  thought  came  into  her  mind  which  il- 
luminated the  dark  regions  of  her  grief  with  a  gleam 
of  celestial  light.  Such  a  thought  could  have  smiled 
into  no  heart  that  was  less  pure  and  guileless  than  hers. 
She  resolved  to  go  to  the  Duchesse  de  Carigliano,  not  to 
ask  for  the  heart  of  her  husband,  but  to  learn  from  that 
great  lady  the  arts  which  had  taken  him  from  her ;  to 
interest  that  proud  woman  of  the  world  in  the  mother 
of  her  friend's  children  ;  to  soften  her,  to  make  her  the 
accomplice  of  her  future  peace,  just  as  she  was  now  the 
instrument  of  her  present  sorrow. 

So,  one  da}',  the  timid  Augustine,  armed  with  super- 
natural courage,  got  into  her  carriage  about  two  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  intending  to  make  her  way  into  the 
boudoir  of  the  celebrated  lady,  who  was  never  visible 
until  that  time  of  da}'. 

Madame  de  Sommervieux  had  never  yet  seen  anj'  of 


78  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

the  old  and  sumptuous  mansions  of  the  faubourg  Saint- 
Germain.  When  she  passed  through  the  majestic  ves- 
tibule, the  noble  stairways,  the  vast  salons,  filled  with 
flowers  in  spite  of  the  inclemencies  of  the  season,  and 
decorated  with  the  natural  taste  of  women  born  to  opu- 
lence or  to  the  elegant  habits  of  the  aristocracy,  Augus- 
tine was  conscious  of  a  terrible  constriction  of  her  heart. 
She  envied  the  secrets  of  an  elegance  of  which  till  then 
she  had  had  no  idea ;  she  inhaled  a  breath  of  grandeur 
which  explained  to  her  the  charm  that  house  possessed 
over  her  husband. 

When  she  reached  the  private  apartments  of  the 
duchess  she  felt  both  jealousy  and  despair  as  she  noted 
the  voluptuous  arrangement  of  the  furniture,  the  dra- 
peries, the  hangings  upon  the  walls.  There,  disorder 
was  a  grace ;  there,  luxury  affected  disdain  of  mere 
richness.  The  perfume  of  this  soft  atmosphere  pleased 
the  senses  without  annoying  them.  The  accessories  of 
these  rooms  harmonized  with  the  vista  of  gardens  and 
a  lawn  planted  with  trees  seen  through  the  windows. 
All  was  seductive,  and  yet  no  calculated  seduction  was 
felt.  The  genius  of  the  mistress  of  these  apartments 
pervaded  the  salon  in  which  Augustine  now  awaited  her. 
Madame  de  Sommervieux  endeavored  to  guess  the 
character  of  her  rival  from  the  objects  about  the  room  ; 
but  there  was  something  impenetrable  in  its  disorder  as 
in  its  symmetry,  and  to  the  guileless  Augustine  it  was 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  79 

a  sealed  book.  All  that  she  could  really  make  out  was 
that  the  duchess  was  a  superior  woman  as  woman.  Tlic 
discovery  brought  her  a  painful  thought. 

"  Alas  !  can  it  be  true,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  that  a 
simple  and  loving  heart  does  not  suffice  an  artist  ?  and  to 
balance  the  weight  of  their  strong  souls  must  the}'  be 
joined  to  feminine  souls  whose  force  is  equal  to  their 
own?  If  I  had  been  brought  up  like  this  siren  our 
weapons  at  least  would  have  been  matched  for  the 
struggle." 

"  But  I  am  not  at  home!"  The  curt,  sharp  words, 
though  said  in  a  low  voice  in  the  adjoining  boudoir,  were 
overheard  by  Augustine,  whose  heart  throbbed. 

"  The  lady  is  here,"  said  the  waiting- woman. 

"You  are  crazy!  Show  her  in,"  added  the  duchess, 
changing  her  voice  to  a  cordially  polite  tone.  Evidently 
she  expected  then  to  be  overheard. 

Augustine  advanced  timidly.  At  the  farther  end  of 
the  cool  boudoir  she  saw  the  duchess  luxuriously  reclin- 
ing on  a  brown-velvet  ottoman  placed  in  the  centre  of  a 
species  of  half-circle  formed  by  folds  of  muslin  draped 
over  a  yellow  ground.  Ornaments  of  gilded  bronze, 
an'anged  with  exquisite  taste,  heightened  still  further 
the  effect  of  the  dais  under  which  the  duchess  posed 
like  an  antique  statue.  The  dark  color  of  the  velvet 
enabled  her  to  lose  no  means  of  seduction.  A  soft 
chiaro-scuro,  favorable  to  her  beauty,  seemed  more  a 


80  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

reflection  than  a  light.  A  few  choice  flowers  lifted  their 
fragrant  heads  from  the  Sevres  vases.  As  this  scene 
caught  the  eye  of  the  astonished  Augustine  she  came 
forward  so  quickly  and  softly  that  she  surprised  a 
glance  from  the  eyes  of  the  enchantress.  That  glance 
seemed  to  sa}'  to  a  person  whom  at  first  the  painter's 
wife  could  not  see:  "Wait;  yow.  shall  see  a  pretty 
woman,  and  help  me  to  put  up  with  a  tiresome  visit." 

As  Augustine  advanced  the  duchess  rose,  and  made 
her  sit  beside  her. 

"To  what  do  I  owe  the  pleasure  of  this  visit,  ma- 
dame  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  smile  full  of  charm. 

"Why  so  false?"  thought  Augustine,  who  merely 
bowed  her  head. 

Silence  was  a  necessity ;  for  the  j'oung  woman  now 
saw  a  witness  to  the  interview  in  the  person  of  an 
oflScer  of  the  army,  —  the  youngest,  and  most  elegant 
and  dashing  of  the  colonels.  His  clothes,  which  were 
those  of  a  civilian,  set  ofl"  the  graces  of  his  person. 
His  face,  full  of  life  and  j^outh  and  very  expressive, 
was  still  further  enlivened  b}^  small  moustachios,  black 
as  jet  and  waxed  to  a  point,  by  a  well-trimmed  im- 
perial, carefully  combed  whiskers  and  a  forest  of  black 
hair  which  was  somewhat  in  disorder.  He  played  with 
a  riding-whip  and  showed  an  ease  and  freedom  of  man- 
ner which  agreed  well  with  the  satisfied  expression  of 
bis  face  and  the  elegance  of  his  dress ;  the  ribbons  in 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  81 

Lis  buttonhole  were  carelessl}'  knotted  and  be  seemed 
more  vain  of  bis  appearance  than  of  bis  courage. 
Augustine  looked  at  tbe  Duchesse  de  Carigliano,  with 
a  glance  at  tbe  colonel  in  which  many  prayers  were 
included. 

"Well,  adieu,  Monsieur  d'Aiglemont;  we  shall  meet 
in  tbe  Bois  de  Boulogne,"  said  the  siren,  in  a  tone  as 
if  the  words  were  tbe  result  of  some  agreement  made 
before  Augustine  entered  tbe  room ;  she  accompanied 
them  with  a  threatening  glance,  which  the  officer  de- 
served, perhaps,  for  the  undisguised  admiration  with 
which  he  looked  at  tbe  modest  flower  who  contrasted 
so  admirably  with  tbe  haughty  duchess.  Tbe  young 
dandj'  bowed  in  silence,  turned  on  tbe  heels  of  bis 
boots,  and  gracefully  left  tbe  room.  At  that  moment 
Augustine,  watching  her  rival  whose  ej'es  followed  the 
brilliant  officer,  caught  sight  of  a  sentiment  tbe  fugitive 
expressions  of  which  are  known  to  ever}'  woman.  She 
saw  with  bitter  sorrow  that  her  visit  would  be  useless  ; 
the  artful  duchess  was  too  eager  for  homage  not  to  have 
a  pitiless  heart. 

"  Madame,"  said  Augustine,  in  a  broken  voice,  "  tbe 
step  I  now  take  will  seem  very  strange  to  you  ;  but  de- 
spair has  its  madness,  and  that  is  my  excuse.  I  can 
now  understand  onh'  too  well  why  Theodore  prefers 
3'our  house  to  mine,  and  bow  it  is  that  3-our  mind 
should  exercise  so  great  an  empire  over  him.     Alas  \ 

6 


82  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

I  have  but  to  look  within  myself  to  find  reasons  that 
are  more  than  sufficient.  But  1  adore  my  husband, 
madame.  Two  years  of  sorrow  have  not  changed  the 
love  of  my  heart,  though  I  have  lost  his.  In  my 
madness  I  have  dared  to  believe  that  I  might  struggle 
against  you ;  I  have  come  to  you  to  be  told  by  what 
means  I  can  triumph  over  you.  Oh,  madame !  "  cried 
the  young  woman,  seizing  the  hand  which  her  rival 
allowed  her  to  take,  "  never  will  I  pray  God  for  my 
own  happiness  with  such  fervor  as  I  will  pray  to  him 
for  yours,  if  you  will  help  me  to  recover,  I  will  not 
say  the  love,  but  the  friendship  of  my  husband.  I  have 
no  longer  any  hope  except  in  you.  Ah !  tell  me  how 
it  is  you  have  won  him,  and  made  him  forget  the  early 
days  of— " 

At  these  words  Augustine,  choking  with  her  sobs, 
was  compelled  to  pause.  Ashamed  of  her  weakness, 
she  covered  her  face  with  a  handkerchief  that  was  wet 
with  tears. 

"  Ah,  what  a  child  you  are,  my  dear  little  lady!" 
said  the  duchess,  fascinated  by  the  novelty  of  the 
scene  and  touched  in  spite  of  herself  at  receiving  such 
homage  from  as  perfect  a  virtue  as  there  was  in  Paris, 
taking  the  young  wife's  handkerchief  and  herself  drj-- 
ing  her  tears  and  soothing  her  with  a  few  murmured 
monosyllables  of  graceful  pity. 

After  a  moment's  silence  the  accomplished  coquette, 


i 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  83 

clasping  poor  Augustine's  prett}-  hands  in  her  own, 
which  had  a  rare  character  of  noble  beauty  and  power, 
said,  in  a  gentle  and  even  affectionate  voice  :  "  My  first 
advice  will  be  not  to  weep  ;  tears  are  unbecoming.  We 
must  learn  how  to  conquer  sorrows  which  make  us  ill, 
lor  love  will  not  stay  long  on  a  bed  of  pain.  Sadness 
may  at  first  bestow  a  certain  charm  which  pleases  a 
man,  but  it  ends  by  sharpening  the  features  and 
fading  the  color  of  the  sweetest  face.  And  remember, 
our  tyrants  have  the  self-love  to  require  that  their 
slaves  shall  be  alwa^-s  gay." 

"  Ah,  madame !  is  it  within  my  power  to  cease  feel- 
ing ?  How  is  it  possible  not  to  die  a  thousand  deaths 
when  we  see  a  face  which  once  shone  for  us  with  love 
and  joy,  now  harsh,  and  cold,  and  indifferent?  Xo,  I 
cannot  control  my  heart." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  you,  m}-  poor  dear.  But  I 
think  I  already  know  joxxx  history.  In  the  first  place, 
be  very  sure  that  if  your  husband  has  been  unfaithful 
to  you,  I  am  not  his  accomplice.  If  I  made  a  point  of 
attracting  him  to  m}'  salon,  it  was,  I  freely  confess,  out 
of  vanity ;  he  was  famous,  and  he  went  nowhere.  I 
like  you  too  well  already  to  tell  you  all  the  follies  he  has 
committed  for  me.  •  But  I  shall  reveal  one  of  them  be- 
cause it  ma}'  perhaps  help  us  to  bring  him  back  to  you, 
and  to  punish  him  for  the  audacit}'  he  has  lately  shown 
in  his  proceedings  toward  me.     He  will  end  by  com- 


84  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

promising  me.  I  know  the  world  too  well,  my  dear, 
to  put  mj-self  at  the  mercy  of  a  superior  man.  Believe 
me,  it  is  very  well  to  let  them  court  us,  but  to  marry 
them  is  a  blunder.  "We  women  should  admire  men  of 
genius,  enjoy  them  as  we  would  a  play,  but  Uve  with 
them  —  never !  No,  no !  it  is  like  going  behind  the 
scenes  and  seeing  the  machinery,  instead  of  sitting  in 
our  boxes  and  enjoying  the  illusions.  But  with  yoxx, 
my  poor  child,  the  harm  is  done,  is  it  not?  Well, 
then,  you  must  try  to  arm  yourself  against  tjTannj'." 

"  Ah,  madame,  as  I  entered  this  house  and  before  I 
saw  you  I  became  aware  of  certain  arts  that  I  never 
suspected." 

"  Well,  come  and  see  me  sometimes,  and  3'ou  will 
soon  learn  the  science  of  such  trifles,  —  really  impor- 
tant, however,  in  their  effects.  External  things  are  to 
fools  more  than  one  half  of  life ;  and  for  that  reason 
more  than  one  man  of  talent  is  a  fool  in  spite  of  his 
superiority.  I  will  venture  to  lay  a  wager  that  you 
have  never  refused  anything  to  Theodore." 

"  How  can  we  refuse  an3-thing  to  those  we  love?  " 

"  Poor,  innocent  child !  I  adore  your  folly.  Let  me 
tell  you  that  the  more  we  love  the  less  we  should  let  a 
man,  speciaU}'  a  husband,  see  the  extent  of  our  passion. 
Whoever  loves  the  most  is  certain  to  be  the  one  that  is 
t^'rannized  over,  and,  worse  than  all,  deserted  sooner 
or  later.    Whoever  desires  to  reign  must  —  " 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  85 

"  Oh,  madame,  must  wc  all  dissimulate,  calculate,  be 
false  at  heart,  make  ourselves  an  artificial  nature,  and 
forever?    Oh,  who  could  live  thus?    Could  you  —  " 

She  hesitated  ;  the  duchess  smiled. 

"  M}'  dear,"  resumed  the  great  lady  in  a  grave  tone, 
"  conjugal  happiness  has  been  from  time  immemorial  a 
speculation,  a  matter  which  required  particular  study. 
If  30U  persist  in  talking  passion  while  I  am  talking 
marriage  we  shall  never  understand  each  other.  Listen 
to  me,"  she  continued,  in  a  confidential  tone.  "  I  have 
been  in  the  wa}-  of  seeing  man}'  of  the  superior  men  of 
our  da}'.  Those  of  them  who  married  chose,  with  few 
exceptions,  women  who  were  ciphers.  "Well,  those 
women  have  governed  them  just  as  the  Emperor  gov- 
erns us,  and  they  have  been,  if  not  beloved,  at  least 
always  respected  by  them.  I  am  fond  of  secrets, 
especially  those  that  concern  our  sex,  and  to  amuse 
m^'self  I  have  sought  the  ke}'  to  that  riddle.  Well, 
m}'  dear  little  angel,  it  is  this,  —  those  good  women 
knew  enough  to  analyze  the  characters  of  their  hus- 
bands ;  without  being  frightened,  as  j'ou  have  been, 
at  their  superiority,  they  have  cleverly  discovered  the 
qualities  those  men  lacked,  and  whether  they  them- 
selves had  them  or  only  feigned  to  have  them,  the}- 
found  means  to  make  such  a  show  of  those  very  qual- 
ities before  the  eyes  of  their  husbands  that  they  ended 
by  mastering  them.     Remember  one  thing  more :  those 


86  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

souls  which  seem  so  great  all  have  a  little  grain  of  folly 
in  them,  and  it  is  our  business  to  make  the  most  of  it. 
If  we  set  our  wills  to  rule  them  and  let  nothing  deter 
us,  but  concentrate  all  our  actions,  our  ideas,  our  fas- 
cinations upon  that,  we  can  master  those  eminently 
capricious  minds, —  for  the  very  inconstanc}^  of  their 
thoughts  gives  us  the  means  of  influencing  them." 

"Oh!"  cried  the  young  wife,  horror-struck,  "can 
that  be  life  ?    Then  it  is  a  battle  —  " 

"  — in  which  whoso  would  win  must  threaten,"  said 
the  duchess  laughing.  "  Our  power  is  artificial.  Con- 
sequently we  should  never  let  a  man  despise  us ;  we 
can  never  rise  after  such  a  fall  except  through  vile 
manoeuvres.  Come,"  she  added,  "I  will  give  3^ou  the 
means  to  hold  your  husband  in  chains." 

She  rose,  and  guided  her  young  and  innocent  pupil 
in  conjugal  wiles  through  the  labyrinths  of  her  little 
palace.  They  came  presently  to  a  private  staircase 
which  communicated  with  the  state  apartments.  When 
the  duchess  touched  the  secret  lock  of  the  door  she 
stopped,  looked  at  Augustine  with  an  inimitable  air  of 
wiliness  and  grace,  and  said,  smiling:  "My  dear,  the 
Due  de  Carigliano  adores  me, — well,  he  would  not  dare 
to  enter  this  door  without  my  permission.  Yet  he  is  a 
man  who  has  the  habit  of  command  over  thousands  of 
soldiers.  He  can  face  a  battery,  but  in  my  presence  — 
he  is  afraid." 


* 


i 


t 


Fame  and  Sorroio.  87 

Augustine  sighed.  They  reached  a  noble  gallerj', 
where  the  duchess  led  the  painter's  wife  before  the 
portrait  Theodore  had  once  made  of  Mademoiselle 
Guillaume.     At  sight  of  it  Augustine  uttered  a  cry. 

"I  knew  it  was  no  longer  in  the  house,"  she  said, 
"but  — here!" 

"My  dear  child,  I  exacted  it  only  to  see  how  far 
the  folly  of  a  man  of  genius  would  go.  I  intended  to 
return  it  to  you  sooner  or  later ;  for  I  did  not  expect 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  original  standing  before  the 
copy.  1  will  have  the  picture  taken  to  3-our  carriage 
while  we  finish  our  conversation.  If,  armed  with  that 
talisman,  you  are  not  mistress  of  yoxiv  husband  during 
the  next  hundred  years,  you  are  not  a  woman  and  you 
deser\'e  your  fate." 

Augustine  kissed  the  hand  of  the  great  lady,  who 
pressed  her  to  her  heart  with  all  the  more  tenderness 
because  she  was  certain  to  have  forgotten  her  on  the 
morrow.  This  scene  might  have  destroyed  forever 
the  puritj'  and  candor  of  a  less  virtuous  woman  than 
Augustine,  to  whom  the  secrets  revealed  by  the  duchess 
could  have  been  either  salutary  or  fatal ;  but  the  astute 
polic}'  of  the  higher  social  spheres  suited  Augustine  as 
little  as  the  narrow  reasoning  of  Joseph  Lebas  or  the 
silly  morality  of  Madame  Guillaume.  Strange  result 
of  the  false  positions  into  which  we  are  thrown  by  the 
even  trivial  mistakes  we  make  in  life  !     AuOTStine  was 


88  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

like  an  Alpine  herdsman  overtaken  by  an  avalanche  ; 
if  he  hesitates,  or  listens  to  the  cries  of  his  comrades, 
he  is  lost.  In  these  great  crises  the  heart  either  breaks 
or  hardens. 

Madame  de  Sommervieux  returned  home  a  prey  to 
an  agitation  it  is  difficult  to  describe.  Her  conversation 
with  the  duchess  had  roused  a  thousand  contradictory 
ideas  in  her  mind.  Like  the  sheep  of  the  fable,  full  of 
courage  when  the  wolf  was  away,  she  preached  to  her- 
self and  laid  down  admirable  lines  of  conduct ;  she 
imagined  stratagems  of  coquetr}-  ;  she  talked  to  her 
husband,  he  being  absent,  with  all  the  resources  of 
that  eloquence  which  never  leaves  a  woman ;  then, 
remembering  the  glance  of  Theodore's  fixed,  light  eyes, 
she  trembled  with  fear.  When  she  asked  if  Monsieur 
were  at  home,  her  voice  failed  her.  Hearing  that  he 
would  not  be  at  home  to  dinner,  she  was  conscious  of 
a  feeling  of  inexplicable  relief.  Like  a  criminal  who 
appeals  against  a  death-sentence,  the  delay,  however 
short,  seemed  to  her  a  lifetime. 

She  placed  the  portrait  in  her  bedroom,  and  awaited 
her  husband  in  all  the  agonies  of  hope.  Too  well  she 
knew  that  this  attempt  would  decide  her  whole  future, 
and  she  trembled  at  every  sound,  even  at  the  ticking  of 
her  clock,  which  seemed  to  increase  her  fears  by  mea- 
suring them.  She  tried  to  cheat  time ;  the  idea  oc- 
curred to  her  to  dress  in  a  manner  that  made  her  still 


i 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  89 

moro  like  the  portrait.  Then,  knowing  lior  husband's 
uneasy  nature,  she  caused  her  rooms  to  be  lighted  up 
with  unusual  brilliancy,  certain  that  curiosity  would 
bring  him  to  her  as  soon  as  he  came  in.  Midnight 
sounded,  and  at  the  groom's  cry  the  gates  opened  and 
the  painter's  carriage  rolled  into  the  silent  courtyard. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  illumination?" 
asked  Theodore,  gayly,  as  he  entered  his  wife's  room. 

Augustine  took  advantage  of  so  favorable  a  moment 
and  threw  herself  into  his  arms  as  she  pointed  to  the 
portrait.  The  artist  stood  still ;  immovable  as  a  rock, 
gazing  alternately  at  Augustine  and  at  the  tell-tale  can- 
vas. The  timid  wife,  half-dead  with  fear,  watched  the 
changing  brow,  that  terrible  brow,  and  saw  the  cruel 
wrinkles  gathering  like  clouds  ;  then  the  blood  seemed 
to  curdle  in  her  veins  when,  with  a  flaming  eye  and  a 
husky  voice,  he  began  to  question  her. 

' '  Where  did  you  get  that  picture  ?  " 

"  The  Duchesse  de  Carigliano  returned  it  to  me." 

"  Did  3'ou  ask  her  for  it?  " 

"  I  did  not  know  she  had  it." 

The  softness,  or  rather  the  enchanting  melody  of  that 
angel  voice  might  have  turned  the  heart  of  cannibals, 
but  not  that  of  an  artist  in  the  tortures  of  wounded 
vanit}'. 

"  It  is  worthy  of  her !  "  cried  the  artist,  in  a  voice  of 
thunder.     "I  will  be  revenged  !  "  he  said,  striding  up 


90  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

and  down  the  room,  "  She  shall  die  of  shame  ;  I  will 
paint  her,  — yes,  I  will  exhibit  her  in  the  character  of 
Messalina  leaving  Claudius'  palace  by  night." 

"  Theodore  !  "  said  a  faint  voice. 

"  I  will  kill  her  !  " 

"  My  husband  !  " 

"  She  loves  that  little  cavalry  colonel,  because  he 
rides  well ! " 

*'  Theodore ! " 

"  Let  me  alone !  "  said  the  painter  to  his  wife,  in  a 
voice  that  was  almost  a  roar. 

The  scene  is  too  repulsive  to  depict  here ;  the  rage 
of  the  artist  led  him,  before  it  ended,  to  words  and  acts 
which  a  woman  less  young  and  timid  than  Augustine 
would  have  ascribed  to  insanity. 

About  eight  o'clock  on  the  following  morning  Madame 
Guillaume  found  her  daughter  pale,  with  red  eyes  and 
her  hair  in  disorder,  gazing  on  the  fragments  of  a 
painted  canvas  and  the  pieces  of  a  broken  frame  which 
lay  scattered  on  the  floor.  Augustine,  almost  uncon- 
scious with  grief,  pointed  to  the  wreck  with  a  gesture 
of  despair. 

"It  is  not  such  a  very  great  loss,"  cried  the  old 
woman.  "  It  was  very  like  you,  that's  true ;  but  I  'm 
told  there  is  a  man  on  the  boulevard  who  paints 
charming  portraits  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  francs."  .ll 

"Ah,  mother!" 


\ 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  91 

*'  Poor  dear!  well,  3'ou  arc  right,"  answered  Madame 
Guillaume,  mistaking  the  meaning  of  the  look  her 
daughter  gave  her;  "there  is  nothing  so  tender  as 
a  mother's  love.  My  dearest,  I  can  guess  it  all ;  tell 
me  your  troubles  and  I  '11  comfort  you.  Your  maid  has 
told  me  dreadful  things  ;  I  alwaj's  said  j'our  husband 
was  a  madman,  —  why,  he  's  a  monster !  " 

Augustine  put  her  finger  on  her  pallid  lips  as  if  to 
implore  silence.  During  that  terrible  night  sorrow  had 
brought  her  the  patient  resignation  which,  in  mothers 
and  in  loving  women,  surpasses  in  its  effects  all  other 
human  forces,  and  reveals,  perhaps,  the  existence  of 
certain  fibres  in  the  hearts  of  women  which  God  has 
denied  to  those  of  men. 

An  inscription  engraved  on  a  broken  column  in  the 
cemetery  of  Montmartre  states  that  Madame  de  Som- 
mervieux  died  at  twenty-seven  j'cars  of  age.  Between 
the  simple  lines  of  her  epitaph  a  friend  of  the  timid 
creature  reads  the  last  scenes  of  a  drama.  Every  3'ear, 
on  the  solemn  second  of  November,  as  he  passes  before 
that  earl}-  grave  he  never  fails  to  ask  himself  if  stronger 
women  than  Augustine  are  not  needed  for  the  powerful 
clasp  of  genius. 

"  The  modest,  humble  flower,  blooming  in  the  valley 
dies,"  he  thought,  "  if  transplanted  nearer  to  heaven, 
to  the  regions  where  the  storms  gather  and  the  sun 
wilts." 


COLONEL  CHABERT. 


To  Madame  la  Comtesse  Ida  de  Bocakm^ 

NEE    DU    ChaSTELEK. 


"  There  's  our  old  top-coat  again  ! " 

This  exclamation  came  from  the  lips  of  a  clerk  of  the 
species  called  in  Parisian  law-offices  "  gutter-jumpers," 
who  was  at  the  moment  munching  with  a  yery  good 
appetite  a  slice  of  bread.  He  took  a  little  of  the  crumb 
and  made  a  pellet,  which  he  flung,  with  a  laugh,  through 
the  blinds  of  the  window  against  which  he  was  leaning. 
Well-aimed,  the  pellet  rebounded  nearly  to  the  height 
of  the  window  after  hitting  the  hat  of  a  stranger  who 
was  crossing  the  courtyard  of  a  house  in  the  rue  Vivi- 
enne,  where  Maitre  Der\dlle,  the  lawyer,  resided. 

"Come,  come,  Simonnin,  don't  play  tricks,  or  I'll 
turn  you  ofl".  No  matter  how  poor  a  client  may  be,  he 
is  a  man,  the  devil  take  you  !  "  said  the  head-clerk, 
pausing  as  he  added  up  a  bill  of  costs. 


94  Colonel  Chabert. 

The  gutter-jumper  is  usually,  like  Simonnin,  a  lad 
of  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  of  age,  who  in  all  law- 
oflSces  is  under  the  particular  supervision  of  the  head- 
clerk,  whose  errands  he  does,  and  whose  love-letters 
he  carries,  together  with  the  wi'its  of  the  courts  and  the 
petitions  entered-  He  belongs  to  the  gamin  de  Paris 
through  his  ethics,  and  to  the  pettifogging  side  of  law 
through  fate.  The  lad  is  usually  pitiless,  undisciplined, 
totally  without  reverence,  a  scoffer,  a  writer  of  epi- 
grams, lazy,  and  also  greedy.  Nevertheless,  all  such 
little  fellows  have  an  old  mother  living  on  some  fifth 
story,  with  whom  they  share  the  thirty  or  forty  francs 
they  earn  monthly." 

"  If  it  is  a  man,  why  do  you  call  him  an  '  old  top- 
coat/ "  said  Simonnin,  in  the  tone  of  a  scholar  who 
detects  his  master  in  a  mistake. 

Thereupon  he  returned  to  the  munching  of  his  bread 
with  a  bit  of  cheese,  leaning  his  shoulder  against  the 
window-frame ;  for  he  took  his  rest  standing,  like  the 
horses  of  the  hackney-coaches,  with  one  leg  raised  and 
supported  against  the  other. 

"  Couldn't  we  play  that  old  guy  some  trick?"  said 
the  third  clerk,  Godeschal,  in  a  low  voice,  stopping  in 
the  middle  of  a  legal  document  he  was  dictating  to  be 
engrossed  by  the  fourth  clerk  and  copied  b}-  two  neo- 
phj^tes  from  the  provinces.  Having  made  the  above 
suggestion,  he  went  on  with  his  dictation:  '■''But  in 


Colonel  Chabert.  95 

his  gracious  and  benevolent  wisdom  Jlis  Majesty 
Louis  the  Eighteenth^  —  Write  all  the  letters,  hi, 
there!  Desroches  the  learned! —  so  soon  as  he  re- 
covered the  reins  ofpotcer,  understood —  What  did 
that  fat  joker  understand,  I  'd  like  to  know  ?  —  the 
high  mission  to  which  Divine  Providence  had  called 

him! Put  an  exclamation  mark  and  six 

dots ;  they  are  pious  enough  at  the  Palais  to  let  'em 
pass  —  and  his  first  thought  loas,  as  is  proved  by  the 
date  of  the  ordinance  herein  nained,  to  repair  evils 
caused  by  the  frightful  and  lamentable  disasters  of 
the  revolutionary  period  by  restoring  to  his  faithful 
and  numerous  adherents  —  '  Numerous  '  is  a  bit  of 
flattery  which  ought  to  please  the  court  —  all  their 
unsold  property  wheresoever  situate^  whether  in  the 
public  domain  or  the  ordinary  and  extraordinary 
croxon  domains,  or  in  the  endowments  of  public  in- 
stitutions /  for  we  contend  and  hold  ourselves  able  to 
maintain  that  such  is  the  spirit  and  the  meaning  of 
the  gracious  ordinance,  rendered  in  —  " 

"  Stop,  stop,"  said  Godeschal  to  the  three  clerks ; 
"that  rascally  sentence  has  come  to  the  end  of  my 
paper  and  is  n't  done  3'et.  Well,"  he  added,  stopping 
to  wet  the  back  of  the  cahier  with  his  tongue  to  turn  the 
thick  page  of  his  stamped  paper,  "  if  you  want  to  play 
the  old  top-coat  a  trick  tell  him  that  the  master  is  so 
busy  he  can  talk  to  clients  only  between  two  and  three 


96  Colonel  Chabert. 

o'clock  in  the  morning ;  we  '11  see  if  he  comes  then,  the 
old  villain ! "  and  Godeschal  returned  to  his  dictation  : 
*'  gracious  ordinance  rendered  in  —  Have  you  got 
that  down?" 

"  Yes,"  cried  the  three  copyists. 

"  Rendered  in  —  Hi,  papa  Boucard,  what 's  the  date 
of  that  ordinance  ?  Dot  your  i's,  unam  et  omnes  — 
it  fills  up." 

"  Omnes"  repeated  one  of  the  clerks  before  Bou- 
card, the  head-clerk,  could  answer. 

"Good  heavens!  you  haven't  written  that,  have 
you  ? "  cried  Godeschal,  looking  at  the  provincial  new- 
comer with  a  ti'uculent  air. 

"Yes,  he  has,"  said  Desroches,  the  fourth  clerk, 
leaning  over  to  look  at  his  neighbor's  copy,  ' '  he  has 
wi'itten,  "  Dot  your  i's,  and  he  spells  it  e-y-e-s." 

All  the  clerks  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"  Do  you  call  that  a  law-term.  Monsieur  Hure  ?  "  cried 
Simonnin,  "  and  3'ou  sa}^  you  come  from  Mortagne  !  " 

"  Scratch  it  out  carefully,"  said  the  head-clerk.  "  If 
one  of  the  judges  were  to  get  hold  of  the  petition  and 
see  that,  the  master  would  never  hear  the  last  of  it. 
Come,  no  more  such  blunders,  Monsieur  Hure  ;  a  Nor- 
man ought  to  know  better  than  to  write  a  petition  care- 
lessly ;  it 's  the  '  Shoulder-arms  ! '  of  the  legal  guild." 

Rendered  in  —  in  —  "  went  on  Godeschal.  "  Do 
tell  me  when,  Boucard?" 


Colonel   Chahert.  97 

"June,  1814,"  replied  the  head-clerk,  without  raising 
his  head  from  his  work. 

A  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  the  next  sentence  of 
the  prolix  petition.  Five  grinning  clerks,  with  lively, 
satirical  eyes  and  curly  heads,  turned  their  noses  to- 
wards the  door,  having  all  shouted  with  one  voice, 
"  Come  in  !  "  Boucard  remained  with  his  head  buried 
in  a  mound  of  deeds,  and  went  on  making  out  the  bill 
of  costs  on  which  he  was  employed. 

The  office  was  a  large  room,  furnished  with  the  clas- 
sic stove  that  adorns  all  other  pettifogging  jorecincts. 
The  pipes  went  diagonallj-  across  the  room  and  entered 
the  chimney,  on  the  marble  mantel-shelf  of  which  were 
diverse  bits  of  bread,  tnangles  of  Brie  cheese,  fresh 
pork-chops,  glasses,  bottles,  and  a  cup  of  chocolate  for 
the  head-clerk.  The  smell  of  these  comestibles  amalga- 
mated so  well  with  the  offensive  odor  of  the  over-heated 
stove  and  the  peculiar  exhalations  of  desks  and  papers 
that  the  stench  of  a  fox  would  hardly  have  been  per- 
ceived. The  floor  was  covered  with  mud  and  snow 
brought  in  b}'  the  clerks.  Near  the  window  stood  the 
rolling-top  desk  of  the  head-clerk,  and  next  to  it  the 
little  table  of  the  second  clerk.  The  latter  was  now  on 
duty  in  the  courts,  where  he  usually  went  between  eight 
and  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  sole  decorations 
of  the  office  were  the  well-known  large  3'ellow  posters 
which  announce  attachments  on  property,  mortgagee- 

7 


98  Colonel  Chabert. 

sales,  litigations  between  guardians  and  minors,  and 
auctions,  final  or  postponed,  the  glory  of  legal  offices. 

Behind  the  head-clerk,  and  covering  the  wall  from 
top  to  bottom,  was  a  case  with  an  enormous  number  of 
pigeon-holes,  each  stuffed  with  bundles  of  papers,  from 
which  hung  innumerable  tags  and  those  bits  of  red 
tape  which  give  special  character  to  legal  documents. 
The  lower  shelves  of  the  case  were  filled  with  paste- 
board boxes,  yellowed  by  time  and  edged  with  blue 
paper,  on  which  could  be  read  the  names  of  the  more 
distinguished  clients  whose  affairs  were  cooking  at  the 
present  time.  The  dirty  window-panes  let  in  but  a 
small  amount  of  light;  besides,  in  the  month  of  Feb- 
ruary there  are  very  few  law-offices  in  Paris  where  the 
clerks  can  write  without  a  lamp  before  ten  o'clock  in  the 
day.  Such  offices  are  invariably  neglected,  and  for 
the  reason  that  while  every  one  goes  there  nobody 
staj's ;  no  personal  interest  attaches  to  so  mean  a 
spot ;  neither  the  lawyers,  nor  the  clients,  nor  the 
clerks,  care  for  the  appearance  of  the  place  which  is 
to  the  latter  a  school,  to  the  clients  a  means,  to  the 
master  a  laboratory.  The  greasy  furniture  is  trans- 
mitted from  lawyer  to  lawyer  with  such  scrupulous  ex- 
actness that  certain  offices  still  possess  boxes  of  "  resi- 
dues," parchments  engrossed  in  black-letter,  and  bags, 
which  have  descended  from  the  solicitors  of  the  "  Chlet," 
an  abbreviation  of  the  word  "  Chatelet,"  an  institution 


Colonel   Chahert.  99 

which  represented  under  the  old  order  of  things  what  a 
court  of  common  pleas  is  in  our  day. 

This  dark  office,  choked  with  dust  and  dirt,  was  there- 
fore, like  all  such  offices,  repulsive  to  clients,  and  one 
of  the  ugly  monstrosities  of  Paris.  Certainly,  if  the 
damp  sacristies  where  prayers  are  weighed  and  paid 
for  like  spices,  if  the  second-hand  shops,  where  flutter 
rags  which  blight  the  illusions  of  life  by  revealing  to  us 
the  end  of  our  festive  arrays,  if  these  two  sewers  of 
poesy  did  not  exist,  a  lawyer's  office  would  be  the  most 
horrible  of  all  social  dens.  But  the  same  characteristic 
may  be  seen  in  gambling-houses,  in  court-rooms,  in  the 
lotter}'  bureaus,  and  in  evil  resorts.  Why?  Perhaps 
because  the  drama  played  in  such  places  within  the 
soul  renders  men  indifferent  to  externals,  —  a  thought 
which  likewise  explains  the  simplicity  of  great  thinkers 
and  men  of  great  ambitions. 

"  Where 's  my  penknife?" 

"  I  shall  eat  mj-  breakfast." 

"  Look  out !  there 's  a  blot  on  the  petition." 

"  Hush,  gentlemen  !  " 

These  various  exclamations  went  off  all  at  once  just 
as  the  old  client  entered  and  closed  the  door,  with  the 
sort  of  humilit}'  which  gives  an  unnatural  air  to  the 
movements  of  a  poverty-stricken  man.  The  stranger 
tried  to  smile,  but  the  muscles  of  his  face  relaxed 
when   he   had   vainly  looked  for  symptoms  of  civility 


100  Colonel   Chabert. 

on  the  inexorably  indifferent  faces  of  the  six  clerks. 
Accustomed,  no  doubt,  to  judge  men,  he  addressed 
himself  politely  to  the  gutter-jumper,  hoping  that  the 
office  drudge  might  answer  him  civilly :  — 

"  Monsieur,  can  I  see  3'our  master?  " 

The  mischievous  youngster  replied  b}'  tapping  his 
ear  with  the  fingers  of  his  left  hand,  as  much  as  to 
sa}^,  "  I  am  deaf." 

"  What  is  it  you  want,  monsieur?"  asked  Godeschal 
swallowing  an  enormous  mouthful  as  he  asked  the 
question,  —  brandishing  his  knife  and  crossing  his  legs 
till  the  foot  of  the  upper  one  came  on  a  line  with  his 
nose. 

"I  have  called  five  times,  monsieur,"  replied  the 
visitor;  "I  wish  to  speak  to  Monsieur  Derville." 

"  On  business?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  can  explain  my  business  only  to  him." 

"He's  asleep;  if  you  wish  to  consult  him  you'll 
have  to  come  at  night ;  he  never  gets  to  work  before 
midnight.  But  if  you  will  explain  the  matter  to  us  we 
can  perhaps  do  as  well  — " 

The  stranger  was  impassive.  He  looked  humbly 
about  him  like  a  dog  slipping  into  a  strange  kitchen 
and  afraid  of  kicks.  Thanks  to  their  general  condi- 
tion, law- clerks  are  not  afraid  of  thieves  ;  so  thej^  felt 
no  suspicion  of  the  top-coat,  but  allowed  him  to  look 
round  in  search  of  a  seat,  for  he  was  evidently  fatigued. 


Colonel  Chahert.''V'',\    '  I'Ol 

It  is  a  matter  of  calculation  with  lawyers:  to  fcave'few 
chairs  in  their  offices.  The  common  client,  weary  of 
standing,  goes  awa}-  grumbling. 

"  Monsieur,"  rei)lied  the  stranger,  "  I  have  already 
hud  the  honor  of  tolling  you  that  I  can  explain  my 
business  to  no  one  but  Monsieur  Derville.  I  will  wait 
until  he  is  up," 

Boucard  had  now  finished  his  accounts.  He  smelt 
the  fumes  of  his  chocolate,  left  his  cane  chair,  came  up 
to  the  chimney,  looked  the  old  man  over  from  head  to 
foot,  gazed  at  the  top-coat  and  made  an  indescribable 
grimace.  He  probably  thought  that  no  matter  how 
long  the}'  kept  this  client  on  the  rack  not  a  penny 
could  be  got  out  of  him ;  and  he  now  interposed, 
meaning  with  a  few  curt  words  to  rid  the  office  of  an 
unprofitable  client. 

"  They  tell  you  the  truth,  monsieur,"  he  said ;  *'  Mon- 
sieur Derville  works  only  at  night.  If  your  business  is 
important  I  advise  you  to  come  back  here  at  one  or  two 
in  the  morning." 

The  client  looked  at  the  head-clerk  with  a  stupid  air, 
and  remained  for  an  instant  motionless.  Accustomed 
to  see  many  changes  of  countenance,  and  many  sin- 
gular expressions  produced  b}'  the  hesitation  and  the 
dreaminess  which  characterize  persons  who  go  to  law, 
the  clerks  took  no  notice  of  the  old  man,  but  continued 
to  eat  their  breakfasts  with  as  much  noise  of  their  jaws 
as  if  they  were  horses  at  a  manger. 


102  Colonel   Chahert. 

'^  Mo5is]'Bnr. -I  giiiall  return  to-night,"  said  the  visi- 
tor, who,  with  the  tenacity  of  an  unhappy  man,  was 
determined  to  put  his  tormentors  in  the  wrong. 

The  onl}^  retaliation  granted  to  poverty  is  that  of 
forcing  justice  and  benevolence  to  unjust  refusals. 
When  unhappy  souls  have  convicted  society  of  false- 
hood then  they  fling  themselves  the  more  ardently 
upon  the  hosom  of  God. 

' '  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  skull  ?  "  cried  Simonnin, 
without  waiting  till  the  door  had  closed  on  the  old 
man. 

"He  looks  as  if  he  had  been  buried  and  dug  up 
again,"  said  one. 

"  He's  some  colonel  who  wants  his  back-pay,"  said 
the  head-clerk. 

"  No,  he's  an  old  porter." 

"  Who  '11  bet  he 's  a  nobleman  ?  "  cried  Boucard. 

"I'll  bet  he  has  been  a  porter,"  said  Godeschal. 
"  None  but  porters  are  gifted  by  nature  with  top-coats 
as  greasy  and  ragged  round  the  bottom  as  that  old 
fellow's.  Did  n't  you  notice  his  cracked  boots  which 
let  in  water,  and  that  cravat  in  place  of  a  shirt  ?  That 
man  slept  last  night  under  a  bridge." 

"  He  may  be  a  nobleman  and  have  burnt  his  candle 
at  both  ends,  — that's  nothing  new  !  "  cried  Desroches. 

"  No,"  replied  Boucard,  in  the  midst  of  much  laughter, 
"I  maintain  he  was  a  brewer  in  1789  and  a  colonel 
under  the  Republic." 


Colonel  Chabert.  103 

"Ha!  I '11  bet  tickets  for  a  play  all  round  that  he 
never  was  a  soldier,"  said  Godeschal. 

"  Done,"  said  Boueard. 

"Monsieur,  monsieur!"  called  the  gutter-jumper, 
opening  the  window. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  Simonnin?"  asked  Boueard. 

"I'm  calling  him  back  to  know  if  he  is  a  colonel  or 
a  porter,  —  he  ought  to  know,  himself." 

"  What  shall  we  say  to  him?"  exclaimed  Godeschal. 

"  Leave  it  to  me,"  said  Boueard. 

The  poor  man  re-entered  timidl}',  with  his  eyes  low- 
ered, perhaps  not  to  show  his  hunger  bj'  looking  too 
eagerl}'  at  the  food. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Boueard,  "  will  you  have  the  kind- 
ness to  give  us  your  name,  so  that  Monsieur  Derville 
may  —  " 

"Chabert." 

' '  The  colonel  who  was  killed  at  Eylau  ? "  asked 
Hure,  who  had  not  3'et  spoken,  but  was  anxious  to 
get  in  his  joke  like  the  rest. 

"The  same,  monsieur,"  answered  the  old  man,  with 
classic  simplicity.     Then  he  left  the  room. 

"Thunder!" 

"Sold!" 

"Puff!" 

"Oh!" 

"  Ah !  " 


104  Colonel  Chabert. 

"Bourn!" 

"  The  old  oddity ! " 

"Done  for!" 

"  Monsieur  Desroches,  you  and  I  will  go  to  the  the- 
atre for  nothing !  "  cried  Hure  to  the  fourth  clerk,  with 
a  rap  on  the  shoulders  fit  to  have  killed  a  rhinoceros. 

Then  followed  a  chorus  of  shouts,  laughs,  and  excla- 
mations, to  describe  which  we  should  have  to  use  all 
the  onomatopoeias  of  the  language. 

"  Which  theatre  shall  we  choose?" 

"  The  Opera,"  said  the  head-clerk. 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  Godeschal,  "I  never  said 
theatre  at  all.  I  can  take  you,  if  I  choose,  to  Madame 
Saqui." 

"  Madame  Saqui  Is  not  a  play,"  said  Desroches. 

"What's  a  play?"  retorted  Godeschal.  "Let's 
first  establish  the  fact.  What  did  I  bet,  gentlemen  ?  tick- 
ets for  a  \}\B,y.    What 's  a  play  ?  a  thing  we  go  to  see  —  " 

"  If  that 's  so,  you  can  take  us  to  see  the  water  run- 
ning under  the  Pont  Neuf,"  interrupted  Simonnin. 

"  — see  for  money,"  went  on  Godeschal. 

"But  you  can  see  a  great  many  things  for  money 
that  are  not  plays.  The  definition  is  not  exact,"  said 
Desroches. 

"  But  just  listen  to  me  —  " 

"You  are  talking  nonsense,  my  dear  fellow,"  said 
Boiicard. 


Colonel  Chabert.  105 

"  Do  you  call  Curtius  a  play?"  asked  Godeschal. 

"No,"  said  the  head-clerk,  "I  call  it  a  gallery  of 
wax  figures." 

"  I  '11  bet  a  hundred  francs  to  a  sou,"  retorted  Godes- 
chal, "  that  Curtius's  gallery  constitutes  a  collection  of 
things  which  may  legally  be  called  a  play.  They  com- 
bine into  one  thing  which  can  be  seen  at  different  prices 
according  to  the  seats  you  occupy  —  " 

"  You  can't  get  out  of  it !  "  said  Simonnin. 

"  Take  care  I  don't  box  your  ears  !  "  said  Godeschal. 

The  clerks  all  shrugged  their  shoulders. 

"  Besides,  we  don't  know  that  that  old  baboon  wasn't 
making  fun  of  us,"  he  continued,  changing  his  argu- 
ment amid  roars  of  laughter.  "The  fact  is.  Colonel 
Chabert  is  as  dead  as  a  door-nail ;  his  widow  married 
Comte  Ferraud,  councillor  of  state.  Madame  Ferraud 
is  one  of  our  clients." 

"The  cause  stands  over  for  to-mon-ow,"  said  Bou- 
card.  "  Come,  get  to  work,  gentlemen.  Heavens  and 
earth  !  nothing  ever  gets  done  here.  Finish  with  that 
petition,  —  it  has  to  be  sent  in  before  the  session  of  the 
fourth  court  which  meets  to-day.     Come,  to  work  !  " 

"If  it  was  really  Colonel  Chabert,  would  n't  he  have 
kicked  that  little  Simonnin  when  he  pretended  to  be 
deaf  ?  "  said  the  provincial  Hure,  considering  that  ob- 
servation quite  as  conclusive  as  those  of  Godeschal. 

"  Nothing  is  decided,"  said  Boucard.    "  Let  us  agree 


106  Colonel  Chdbert. 

to  accept  the  second  tier  of  boxes  at  the  Fran5ais  and 
see  Talma  in  Nero.     Simonnin  can  sit  in  the  pit." 
/    Thereupon  the  head-clerk  sat  down  at  his  desk,  and 
the  others  followed  his  example. 

"  Rendered  June  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and 
fourteen  —  Write  it  in  letters,  mind,"  said  Godeschal. 
"  Have  3'ou  written  it? " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  copyists  and  the  engrosser,  whose 
pens  began  to  squeak  along  the  stamped  paper  with  a 
noise,  well  known  in  all  law-offices,  like  that  of  scores 
of  cockchafers  tied  by  schoolboys  in  a  paper  bag. 

"  Ayid  we  pray  that  the  gentlemen  of  this  tribunal — 
Hold  on !  let  me  read  that  sentence  over  to  mj'self ;  I 
don't  know  what  I  'm  about." 

"  Fort^'-six  —  should  think  that  often  happened  — 
and  three,  forty-nine,"  said  Boucard. 

"  We  pray ^''  resumed  Godeschal,  having  re-read  his 
clause,  '"'•that  the  gentlemen  of  this  tribunal  will  not 
show  less  magnanimity  than  the  august  author  of  the 
ordinance,  and  that  they  will  deny  the  miserable  pre- 
tensions of  the  administration  of  the  grand  chancellor 
of  the  Legion  of  honor  by  determining  the  jurispru- 
dence of  this  matter  in  the  broad  sense  in  which  we  have 
established  it  here  —  " 

"Monsieur  Godeschal,  don't  you  want  a  glass  of 
water?"  said  the  gutter-jumper. 

"  That  imp  of  a  Simonnin !  "  said  Boucard.     "  Come 


Colonel  Chahert.  107 

licrc,  saddle  your  double-soled  horses,  and  take  this 
package  and  skip  over  to  the  Invalides." 

'•'■Which  we  have  established  it  here  — "  went  on 
Godeschal.  "Did  5'ou  get  to  that?  Well,  then  add 
in  the  interests  of  Madame  (full  length)  la  Vicomtesse 
de  Grandlieu  —  " 

"What's  that?"  cried  the  head  clerk,  "the  idea  of 
petitioning  in  that  affair !  Vicomtesse  de  Grandlieu 
against  the  Legion  of  honor !  Ah !  3-ou  must  be  a 
fool !  Have  the  goodness  to  put  away  your  copies  and 
3'our  minute,  —  the}'  '11  answer  for  the  Xavarreins  affair 
against  the  monasteries.  It 's  late,  and  I  must  be  off 
with  the  other  petitions ;  I  '11  attend  to  that  myself  at 
the  Palais." 

Towards  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  individual 
calling  himself  Colonel  Chabert  knocked  at  the  door  of 
Maitre  Derville,  solicitor  in  the  court  of  common  pleas 
for  the  department  of  the  Seine.  The  porter  told  him 
that  Monsieur  Derville  had  not  3"et  come  in.  The  old 
man  declared  he  had  an  appointment  and  passed  up  to 
the  rooms  of  the  celebrated  lawyer,  who,  j'oung  as  he 
was,  was  even  then  considered  one  of  the  best  legal 
heads  in  France.  Having  rung  and  been  admitted,  the 
persistent  client  was  not  a  little  astonished  to  find  the 
head-clerk  laying  out  on  a  table  in  the  dining-room  a 
number  of  documents  relating  to  affairs  which  were  to 
come  up  on  the  morrow.    The  clerk,  not  less  astonished 


108  Colonel  Chabert. 

at  the  apparition  of  the  old  man,  bowed  to  the  colonel 
and  asked  him  to  sit  down,  which  he  did. 

"Upon  my  word,  monsieur,  I  thought  j'ou  were 
joking  when  you  named  such  a  singular  hour  for  a 
consultation,"  said  the  old  man,  with  the  factitious 
liveliness  of  a  ruined  man  who  tries  to  smile. 

"  The  clerks  were  joking  and  telling  the  truth  also," 
said  the  head-clerk,  going  on  with  his  work.  "Mon- 
sieur Derville  selects  this  hour  to  examine  his  causes, 
give  directions  for .  the  suits,  and  plan  his  defences. 
His  extraordinary  intellect  works  freer  at  this  hour, 
the  onl}^  one  in  which  he  can  get  the  silence  and  tran- 
quillity^ he  requires  to  evolve  his  ideas.  You  are  the 
third  person  only  who  has  been  admitted  here  for  a 
consultation  at  this  time  of  night.  After  Monsieur 
Derville  comes  in  he  will  talk  over  each  affair,  read 
everything  connected  with  it,  and  spend  perhaps  five 
or  six  hours  at  his  work ;  then  he  rings  for  me,  and 
explains  his  intentions.  In  the  morning,  from  ten  to 
two,  he  listens  to  his  clients ;  the  rest  of  the  day  he 
passes  in  visiting.  In  the  evening  he  goes  about  in 
society  to  keep  up  his  relations  with  the  great  world. 
He  has  no  other  time  than  at  night  to  delve  into  his 
cases,  rummage  the  arsenals  of  the  Code,  make  his 
plans  of  campaign.  He  is  determined,  out  of  love  for 
his  profession,  not  to  lose  a  single  case.  And  for  that 
reason  he  won't  take  all  that  are  brought  to  him,  as 


Colonel  Chahert.  109 

other  lawyers  do.     That 's  his  hfe  ;  it 's  extraordinarily 
active.     He  makes  a  lot  of  money." 

The  old  man  was  silent  as  he  listened  to  this  explana- 
tion, and  his  singular  face  assumed  a  look  so  devoid  of 
all  intelligence  that  the  clerk  after  glancing  at  him  once 
or  twice  took  no  further  notice  of  him.  A  few  moments 
later  Derville  arrived,  in  evening  dress  ;  his  head-clerk 
opened  the  door  to  him  and  then  went  back  to  the 
papers.  The  Aoung  lawyer  looked  amazed  when  he 
saw  in  the  dim  light  the  strange  client  who  awaited  him. 
Colonel  Chahert  was  as  motionless  as  the  wax  figures 
of  Curtius's  galler}-  where  Godeschal  proposed  to  take 
his  comrades.  This  immovability  might  have  been  less 
noticeable  than  it  was,  if  it  had  not,  as  it  were,  com- 
pleted the  supernatural  impression  conveyed  by  the 
whole  appearance  of  the  man.  The  old  soldier  was 
lean  and  shrunken.  The  concealment  of  his  forehead, 
which  was  carefully  hidden  beneath  a  wig  brushed 
smoothly  over  it,  gave  a  mysterious  expression  to  his 
person.  The  eyes  seemed  covered  with  a  film  ;  you 
might  have  thought  them  bits  of  dirt}'  mother-of-pearl, 
their  bluish  reflections  quivering  in  the  candle-light. 
The  pale,  li^nd,  hatchet  face,  if  I  may  borrow  that 
term,  seemed  dead.  An  old  black-silk  stock  was  fas- 
tened round  the  neck.  The  shadow  of  the  room  hid 
the  body  so  eflectually  below  the  dark  line  of  the  ragged 
article  that   a  man   of  vivid   imagination   might  have 


110  Colonel  Ghahert. 

taken  that  old  head  for  a  sketch  drawn  at  random  on 
the  wall  or  for  a  portrait  by  Rembrandt  without  its 
frame.  The  brim  of  the  hat  worn  by  the  strange  old 
man  cast  a  black  line  across  the  upper  part  of  his  face. 
This  odd  effect,  though  perfectly  natural,  brought  out 
in  abrupt  contrast  the  white  wrinkles,  the  stiffened 
lines,  the  unnatural  hue  of  that  cadaverous  counte- 
nance. The  absence  of  all  motion  in  the  bod}',  all 
warmth  in  the  glance,  combined  with  a  certain  ex- 
pression of  mental  alienation,  and  with  the  degrading 
s^^mptoms  which  characterize  idiocy,  to  give  that  face  a 
nameless  horror  which  no  words  can  describe. 

But  an  observer,  and  especiall}'  a  lawj'er,  would  have 
seen  in  that  blasted  man  the  signs  of  some  deep  an- 
guish, indications  of  a  misery  that  degraded  that  face 
as  the  drops  of  rain  falling  from  the  heavens  on  pure 
marble  gradually  disfigure  it.  A  doctor,  an  author,  a 
magistrate  would  have  felt  intuitively  a  whole  drama  as 
they  looked  at  this  sublime  wreck,  whose  least  merit 
was  a  resemblance  to  those  fantastic  sketches  drawn  by 
artists  on  the  margins  of  their  lithographic  stones  as 
they  sit  conversing  with  their  friends. 

When  the  stranger  saw  the  lawj-er  he  shuddered  with 
the  convulsive  movement  which  seizes  a  poet  when  a 
sudden  noise  recalls  him  from  some  fecund  rcvery 
amid  the  silence  of  the  night.  The  old  man  rose 
quickly  and  took  off  his  hat  to  the  young  lawyer.     The 


Colonel   Chahert.  Ill 

leather  that  lined  it  was  no  doubt  damp  with  grease,  for 
his  wig  stuck  to  it  without  his  knowledge  and  exposed 
his  skull,  horribly  mutilated  and  disfigured  by  a  scar 
running  from  the  crown  of  his  head  to  the  angle  of  his 
right  ej'e  and  forming  a  raised  welt.  The  sudden  re- 
moval of  that  dirty  wig,  worn  by  the  poor  soul  to  con- 
ceal his  wound,  caused  no  desire  to  laugh  in  the  minds 
of  the  two  young  men  ;  so  awful  was  the  sight  of  that 
skull.  "The  mind  fled  through  it!"  was  the  first 
thought  suggested  to  them  as  they  saw  that  wound. 

"If  he  is  not  Colonel  Chabert  he  is  some  bold 
trooper,"  thought  Boucard. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Derville,  "  to  whom  have  I  the 
honor  of  speaking?" 

"  To  Colonel  Chabert." 

''Which  one?" 

"  The  one  who  was  killed  at  Eylau,"  replied  the  old 
man. 

Hearing  those  extraordinary  words  the  clerk  and  the 
lawyer  looked  at  each  other  as  if  to  say,  "  He  is 
mad." 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  colonel,  "I  desire  to  confide 
my  secrets  to  3'ou  in  private." 

The  intrepidity  which  characterizes  lawyers  is  worthy 
of  remark.  Whether  from  their  habit  of  receiving 
great  numbers  of  persons,  whether  from  an  abiding 
sense  of  the  protection  of  the  law,   or  from  perfect 


112  Colonel  Chahert. 

confidence  in  their  ministr}',  certain  it  is  they  go 
everywhere  and  take  all  risks,  like  priests  and  doc- 
tors. Derville  made  a  sign  to  Boucard,  who  left  the 
room. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  lawj-er,  "  during  the  daj'  I  am 
not  ver}-  chary  of  my  time ;  but  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  everj^  moment  is  precious  to  me.  Therefore,  be 
brief  and  concise.  Tell  3'our  facts  without  digression  ; 
I  will  ask  3'ou  any  explanations  I  may  find  necessary. 
Go  on." 

Bidding  his  strange  client  be  seated,  the  young  man 
sat  down  before  the  table,  and  while  listening  to  the  tale 
of  the  late  colonel  he  turned  over  the  pages  of  a  brief. 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  deceased,  "  perhaps  yon  know 
that  I  commanded  a  regiment  of  cavalry  at  Eylau.  I 
was  the  chief  cause  of  the  success  of  Murat's  famous 
charge  which  won  the  daj'.  Unhappily'  for  me,  mj' 
death  is  given  as  an  historic  fact  in  '  Victories  and 
Conquests'  where  all  the  particulars  are  related.  We 
cut  the  three  Russian  lines  in  two ;  then  they  closed  be- 
hind us  and  we  were  obliged  to  cut  our  waj^  back  again. 
Just  before  we  reached  the  Emperor,  having  dispersed 
the  Russians,  a  troop  of  the  enemy's  cavalr}'  met  us.  I 
flung  myself  upon  them.  Two  Russian  officers,  actual 
giants,  attacked  me  together.  One  of  them  cut  me 
over  the  head  with  his  sabre,  which  went  through  every- 
thing, even  to  the  silk  cap  which  I  wore,  and  laid  my 


Colonel  Chahert.  113 

skull  open.  I  fell  from  my  horse.  Murat  came  up 
to  support  us,  and  he  and  his  whole  party,  fifteen  hun- 
dred men,  rode  over  me.  The}-  reported  my  death  to 
the  Emperor,  who  sent  (for  he  loved  me  a  little,  the  mas- 
ter !)  to  see  if  there  were  no  hope  of  saving  a  man  to 
whom  he  owed  the  vigor  of  our  attack.  He  despatched 
two  surgeons  to  find  me  and  bring  me  in  to  the  ambu- 
lances, saying  —  perhaps  too  hurriedly,  for  he  had  work 
to  attend  to  —  '  Go  and  see  if  ni}'  poor  Chabert  is  still 
living.'  Those  cursed  saw-bones  had  just  seen  me 
trampled  under  the  hoofs  of  two  regiments ;  no  doubt 
they  never  took  the  trouble  to  feel  my  pulse,  but  re- 
ported me  as  dead.  The  certificate  of  my  death  was 
doubtless  drawn  up  in  d"ue  form  of  military  law." 

Gradually,  as- he  listened  to  his  client,  who  expressed 
himself  with  perfect  clearness,  and  related  facts  that 
were  quite  possible,  though  somewhat  strange,  the 
j-oung  law3"er  pushed  away  his  papers,  rested  his  left 
elbow  on  the  table,  put  his  head  on  his  hand,  and 
looked  fixcdh'  at  the  colonel. 

"Are  you  aware,  monsieur,"  he  said,  "that  I  am 
the  solicitor  of  the  Countess  Ferraud,  widow  of  Colonel 
Chabert?" 

"  Of  my  wife?  Yes,  monsieur.  And  therefore,  after 
man}'  fruitless  eflTorts  to  obtain  a  hearing  from  lawyers, 
who  all  thought  me  mad,  I  determined  to  come  to  j'ou. 
I  shall  speak  of  m}'  sorrows  later.     Allow  me  now  to 


114  Colonel  Chahert. 

state  the  facts,  and  explain  to  you  how  they  probably 
happened,  rather  than  how  they  actually  did  happen. 
Certain  circumstances,  which  can  never  be  known  ex- 
cept to  God  Almighty,  oblige  me  to  relate  much  in  the 
form  of  hypotheses.  I  must  tell  you,  for  instance,  that 
the  wounds  I  received  probably  produced  something 
like  lockjaw,  or  threw  me  into  a  state  analogous  to  a 
disease  called,  I  believe,  catalepsy.  Otherwise,  how 
can  I  suppose  that  I  was  stripped  of  my  clothing  and 
flung  into  a  common  grave,  according  to  the  customs  of 
war,  by  the  men  whose  business  it  was  to  bury  the 
dead?  Here  let  me  state  a  circumstance  which  I  only 
knew  much  later  than  the  event  which  I  am  forced  to 
call  my  death.  In  1814  I  met  in  Stuttgard  an  old  cav- 
alry sergeant  of  my  regiment.  That  dear  man  —  the 
only  human  being  willing  to  recognize  me,  of  whom  I 
will  presently  speak  to  3'ou  —  explained  to  me  the  ex- 
traordinary circumstances  of  my  preservation.  He  said 
that  my  horse  received  a  bullet  in  the  body  at  the  same 
moment  when  I  m3'self  was  wounded.  Horse  and  rider 
were  therefore  knocked  over  together  like  a  stand  of 
muskets.  In  turning,  either  to  the  right  or  to  the 
left,  I  had  doubtless  been  protected  by  the  body  of 
my  horse  which  saved  me  from  being  crushed  by  the 
riders  or  hit  by  bullets." 

The  old  man  paused  for  a  moment  as  if  to  collect 
himself  and  then  resumed  :  — 


Colonel   Chabert.  116 

"  "When  I  came  to  mAself,  monsieur,  I  was  in  a  place 
and  in  an  •atmosphere  of  which  I  could  give  you  no 
idea,  even  if  I  talked  for  days.  The  air  I  breathed  was 
mephitic.  I  tried  to  move  but  I  found  no  space.  My 
eyes  were  open  but  I  saw  nothing.  The  want  of  air 
was  the  worst  sign,  and  it  showed  me  the  dangers  of  my 
position.  I  felt  I  was  in  some  place  where  the  atmos- 
phere was  stagnant,  and  that  I  should  die  of  it.  This 
thought  overcame  the  sense  of  extreme  pain  which  had 
brought  me  to  my  senses.  My  ears  hummed  violently'. 
I  heard,  or  thought  I  heard  (for  I  can  affirm  nothing), 
gi'oans  from  the  heap  of  dead  bodies  among  whom  I 
laj'.  Though  the  recollection  of  those  moments  is  dark, 
though  my  memory  is  confused,  and  in  spite  of  still 
greater  sufferings  which  I  experienced  later  and  which 
have  bewildered  my  ideas,  there  are  nights,  even  now, 
when  I  think  I  hear  those  smothered  moans.  But  there 
was  something  more  horrible  than  even  those  cries,  — a 
silence  that  I  have  never  known  elsewhere,  the  silence 
of  the  grave.  At  last,  raising  m}'  hands  and  feeling 
for  the  dead,  I  found  a  void  between  m}-  head  and  the 
human  camou  about  me.  I  could  even  measure  the 
space  thus  left  to  me  b}'  some  mere  chance,  the  cause 
of  which  I  did  not  know.  It  seemed  as  if,  thanks  to 
the  carelessness  or  to  the  haste  with  which  we  had  been 
flung  pell-mell  into  the  trench,  that  two  dead  bodies 
had  fallen  across  each  other  above  me,  so  as  to  form  an 


116  Colonel   CJiahert. 

angle  like  that  of  two  cards  which  children  lay  together 
to  make  houses.  Quickl}'  feeling  in  all  directions,  —  for 
I  had  no  time  to  idle,  —  I  happily  came  across  an  arm, 
the  arm  of  a  Hercules,  detached  from  its  body ;  and 
those  good  bones  saved  me  !  Without  that  unlooked- 
for  succor  I  must  have  perished.  But  now,  with  a 
fury  you  will  readily  understand,  I  began  to  work  my 
way  upward  through  the  bodies  which  separated  me 
from  the  layer  of  earth  hastily  flung  over  us,  — I  say 
'  us,'  as  though  there  were  others  living.  I  worked 
with  a  will,  monsieur,  for  here  I  am !  Still,  I  don't 
know  to-day  how  it  was  that  I  managed  to  tear  through 
the  covering  of  flesh  that  lay  between  me  and  life.  I 
had,  as  it  were,  three  arms.  That  Herculean  crow-bar, 
which  I  used  carefully,  brought  me  a  little  air  confined 
among  the  bodies  which  it  helped  me  to  displace,  and  I 
economized  my  breathing.  At  last  I  saw  da^'light,  but 
through  the  snow,  monsieur !  Just  then  I  noticed  for 
the  first  time  that  my  head  was  cut  open.  Happily, 
my  blood  —  that  of  my  comrades,  possibly,  how  should 
I  know  ?  or  the  bleeding  flesh  of  my  horse  —  had  co- 
agulated on  my  wound  and  formed  a  natural  plaster. 
But  in  spite  of  that  scab  I  fainted  when  my  head  came 
in  contact  with  the  snow.  The  little  heat  still  left  in 
my  body  melted  the  snow  about  me,  and  when  I  came 
to  m^'self  m}'^  head  was  in  the  middle  of  a  little  opening, 
through  which  I  shouted  as  long  as  I  was  able.     But 


Colonel  Chahert.  117 

the  sun  had  risen  and  I  was  little  likely  to  be  heard. 
People  seemed  already  in  the  fields.  I  raised  myself  to 
my  feet,  making  stepping-stones  of  the  dead  whose 
thighs  were  solid,  —  for  it  was  n't  the  moment  to  stop 
and  say,  '  Honor  to  heroes  ! ' 

"In  short,  monsieur,"  continued  the  old  man,  wlio 
had  stopped  speaking  for  a  moment,  "after  going 
through  the  anguish  —  if  that  word  describes  the  rage  — 
of  seeing  those  cursed  Germans,  ay,  many  of  them, 
run  away  when  they  heard  the  voice  of  a  man  they 
could  not  see,  I  was  at  last  taken  from  my  living  grave 
1)3'  a  woman,  daring  enough  or  inquisitive  enough  to 
come  close  to  my  head,  which  seemed  to  grow  from  the 
ground  like  a  mushroom.  The  woman  fetched  her  hus- 
band, and  together  they  took  me  to  their  poor  hovel. 
It  seems  that  there  I  had  a  return  of  cataleps}',  —  allow 
me  that  term  with  which  to  describe  a  state  of  which  I 
have  no  idea,  but  which  I  judge,  from  what  my  hosts 
told  me,  must  have  been  an  effect  of  that  disease.  I  lay 
for  six  mouths  between  hfe  and  death,  not  speaking, 
or  wandering  in  mind  when  I  did  speak.  At  last  my 
benefactors  placed  me  in  the  hospital  at  Heilsberg.  Of 
course  you  understand,  monsieur,  that  I  issued  from 
m}'  grave  as  naked  as  I  came  from  m}-  mother's  womb ; 
so  that  when,  many  months  later,  I  remembered  that  I 
was  Colonel  Chabert,  and  endeavored  to  make  my 
nmrses  treat  me  with  more  respect  than  if  I  were  a 


118  Colonel  Chahert. 

poor  devil  of  a,  private,  all  the  men  in  the  ward  laughed. 
Happil}'  for  nie,  the  surgeon  made  it  a  point  of  honor 
or  vanit^^  to  cure  me  ;  and  he  naturall^^  became  inter- 
ested in  his  patient.  When  I  spoke  to  him  in  a  con- 
nected manner  of  my  former  life,  that  good  man  (his 
name  was  Sparchmann)  had  my  statements  recorded  in 
the  legal  forms  of  his  country,  also  a  statement  of  the 
miraculous  manner  in  which  I  had  escaped  from  the 
trench,  and  the  day  and  hour  m}'  benefactress  and  her 
husband  had  rescued  me,  together  with  the  nature  and 
exact  position  of  my  wounds  and  i\  careful  description 
of  ni}^  person.  Well,  monsieur,  I  do  not  possess  a 
single  one  of  those  important  papers,  nor  the  declara- 
tion I  made  before  a  notary  at  Heilsberg  to  establish 
my  identity.  The  events  of  the  war  drove  us  from  the 
town,  and  from  that  da}^  I  have  wandered  like  a  vaga- 
bond, begging  my  bread,  treated  as  a  lunatic  when  I 
told  ra}^  stoi'y,  unable  to  earn  a  single  sou  that  would 
enable  me  to  send  for  those  papers,  which  alone  can 
prove  the  truth  of  what  I  say  and  restore  me  to  m}^ 
social  status.  Often  my  physical  sufferings  have  kept 
me  for  weeks  and  months  in  some  obscure  country  town, 
where  the  greatest  kindness  has  been  shown  to  the  sick 
Frenchman,  but  where  they  laughed  in  his  face  when  he 
asserted  he  was  Colonel  Chabert.  For  a  long  while 
such  doubts  and  laughter  made  me  furious,  and  that  in- 
jured m}'  cause,  and  once  I  was  shut  up  as  a  madman 


Colonel   Chahert.  119 

at  Stiittgard.  You  can  imagine,  from  wliat  I  have  told 
YOU,  that  there  were  reasons  to  lock  me  up.  After  two 
years  in  a  madhouse,  where  I  was  forced  to  hear  my 
keepers  sa}- :  '  This  poor  man  fancies  he  was  once  Col- 
onel Chabert,'  to  visitors,  who  replied  compassionately, 
'  Ah,  poor  man  !  '  I  myself  was  convinced  of  the  im- 
possibility of  mj'  story  being  true  ;  I  gi'ew  sad,  resigned, 
tranquil,  and  I  ceased  to  call  myself  Colonel  Chabert, 
so  as  to  get  mv  release  and  return  to  France.  Oh,  mon- 
sieur !  to  see  Paris  once  more  !  it  was  a  joj'  I  —  " 

With  those  unfinished  words  Colonel  Chabert  sank 
into  a  rever}-,  which  the  lawj'er  did  not  disturb. 

"  Monsieur,"  resumed  the  client  presently,  "  one  fine 
day,  a  spring  day,  they  gave  me  raj-  freedom  and  ten 
thalers,  on  the  ground  that  I  talked  sensibly  on  all  sub- 
jects and  had  given  up  calling  myself  Colonel  Chabert ; 
and,  God  knows,  at  that  time  my  name  was  disagree- 
able to  me,  and  has  been  at  intervals  ever  since.  I 
would  like  not  to  be  myself;  the  sense  of  vay  rights 
kills  me.  If  my  illness  had  only  taken  from  me  forever 
the  remembrance  of  my  past  existence,  I  might  be 
happy.  I  might  have  re-entered  the  service  under  some 
other  name ;  and,  who  knows  ?  perhaps  I  should  have 
ended  as  a  Russian  or  an  Austrian  field-marshal." 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  5-ou  have  upset  all 
my  ideas  ;  I  fancy  I  dream  as  I  listen  to  you.  Let  us 
pause  here  for  a  moment,  I  beg  of  you." 


120  Colonel  Chahert. 

"ybii  are  the  only  person,"  said  the  colonel  sadly, 
"•  who  have  ever  listened  to  me  patiently.  No  lawyer 
has  been  willing  to  lend  me  ten  napoleons,  that  I  might 
send  to  German}^  for  the  papers  necessary  for  my  suit." 

"What  suit?"  asked  the  lawyer,  who  had  forgotten 
the  unfortunate  pi-esent  position  of  his  client,  as  he 
listened  to  the  recital  of  his  past  misery. 

"  Wh}',  monsieur,  you  are  well  aware  that  the  Com- 
tesse  Ferraud  is  my  wife.  She  possesses  an  income  of 
thirty  thousand  francs  which  belongs  to  me,  and  she 
refuses  to  give  me  one  penny  of  it.  When  I  tell  this  to 
lawyers  and  to  men  of  common-sense,  when  I,  a  beg- 
gar, propose  to  sue  a  count  and  countess,  when  I, 
risen  from  the  dead,  deny  the  proofs  of  my  death,  they 
put  me  off,  —  they  refuse  to  listen  to  me,  either  with 
that  coldl}^  polite  air  with  which  3'ou  lawyers  know  so 
well  how  to  rid  yourselves  of  hapless  creatures,  or 
brutally,  as  men  do  when  they  think  they  are  dealing 
with  a  swindler  or  a  madman.  I  have  been  buried 
beneath  the  dead,  but  now  I  am  buried  beneath  the 
living,  —  beneath  facts,  beneath  records,  beneath  society 
itself,  which  seeks  to  thrust  me  back  underground  ! " 

"Monsieur,  have  the  goodness  to  sue,  to  prosecute 
now,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"Have  the  goodness!  Ah!"  exclaimed  the  unfor- 
tunate old  man,  taking  the  hand  of  the  j'oung  lawyer ; 
"  that  is  the  first  polite  word  I  have  heard  since  —  " 


Colonel  Chahert.  V2\ 

IIo  wept.  Gratitude  stifled  his  voice.  The  :ill-i)cne- 
trative,  iudeseribable  eloquence  of  look,  gesture,  —  even 
silence,  —  clinched  Derville's  conviction,  and  touched 
him  keenly. 

"  Listen  to  me,  monsieur,"  he  said.  "  I  won  three 
hundred  francs  at  cards  to-night ;  I  can  surely  afford  to 
give  half  that  sum  to  procure  the  happiness  of  a  man. 
I  will  make  all  the  investigations  and  orders  necessary 
to  obtain  the  papers  you  mention ;  and,  until  their 
arrival,  I  will  allow  you  five  francs  a  day.  If  you  are 
Colonel  Chabert,  you  will  know  how  to  pardon  the  small- 
ncss  of  the  loan  offered  b}'  a  young  man  who  has  his 
fortune  to  make.     Continue." 

The  self-styled  colonel  remained  for  an  instant  mo- 
tionless, and  as  if  stupefied  ;  his  great  misfortunes  had, 
perhaps,  destroyed  his  powers  of  belief.  If  he  were 
seeking  to  recover  his  illustrious  military  fame,  his 
home,  his  fortune,  —  himself,  in  short, — it  maj'  have 
been  only  in  obedience  to  that  inexplicable  feeling,  that 
germ  in  the  hearts  of  all  men,  to  which  we  owe  the 
researches  of  the  alchemists,  the  passion  for  glory,  the 
discoveries  of  astronomy  and  of  physios,  —  all  that 
urges  a  man  to  magnify  himself  b}'  the  magnitude  of 
the  facts  or  the  ideas  that  are  a  part  of  him.  The  ego 
was  now  but  a  secondary  consideration  to  his  mind, 
just  as  the  vanity  of  triumph  or  the  satisfaction  of  gain 
are  dearer  to  a  man  who  bets  than  the  object  of  his 


122  Colonel  CJiahert. 

wager.  The  words  of  the  young  lawyer  came,  there- 
fore, like  a  miracle  to  this  man,  repudiated  for  the  last 
ten  years  hy  wife,  bj'  justice,  by  the  whole  social  crea- 
tion. To  receive  from  a  lawj'er  those  ten  gold  pieces 
so  long  denied  him,  by  so  man}'  persons,  in  so  manj' 
wa^-s  !  The  colonel  was  like  the  lady  who  had  been  ill 
so  long,  that  when  she  was  cured  she  thought  she  was 
suffering  from  a  new  malad}'.  There  are  joj's  in  which 
we  no  longer  believe ;  the}'  come,  and  we  find  them 
thunderbolts,  — thej'  blast  us.  So  now  the  poor  man's 
gratitude  was  so  deep  that  he  could  not  utter  it.  He 
might  have  seemed  cold  to  a  superficial  mind,  but  Der- 
ville  saw  iutegrit}^  in  that  very  stupor.  A  swindler 
would  have  spoken. 

"  Where  was  I?"  said  the  colonel,  with  the  guileless- 
ness  of  a  child  or  a  soldier ;  for  there  is  much  of  the 
child  in  the  true  soldier,  and  nearly  alwaj's  something 
of  a  soldier  in  a  child,  especially  in  France. 

"  At  Stuttgard  ;  the}'  had  set  you  at  liberty." 

"You  know  my  wife?"  asked  the  colonel. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Derville,  with  a  nod  of  his  head. 

"How  is  she?" 

"  Always  fascinating." 

The  old  man  made  a  gesture  with  his  hand,  and 
seemed  to  conquer  some  secret  pang  with  the  grave 
and  solemn  resignation  that  characterizes  men  who  have 
been  tried  in  the  fire  and  blood  of  battle-fields. 


Colonel   Chahert.  123 

"  IMonsicnr,"  be  said,  with  a  sort  of  gayct}' ;  for  he 
breathed  anew,  poor  soul ;  he  had  issued  a  second 
time  from  the  grave  ;  he  had  broken  through  a  crust  of 
ice  and  snow  harder  to  molt  than  that  which  once  had 
frozen  his  wounded  head  ;  he  inhaled  the  air  as  tiiough 
he  were  just  issuing  from  a  dungeon.  "  Monsieur,"  he 
said,  "  if  I  were  a  handsome  fellow  I  should  n't  be  where 
I  am  now.  "Women  believe  men  when  the}-  lard  their 
sentences  with  words  of  love.  Then  they  '11  fetch  and 
carry,  and  come  and  go,  and  do  anything  to  serve  you. 
They  'II  intrigue  ;  they  '11  swear  to  facts  ;  the}'  '11  play 
the  devil  for  the  man  they  love.  But  how  could  I  make 
a  woman  listen  to  one  like  me?  With  a  face  like  a 
death's  head,  and  clothed  like  a  sans-culotte,  I  was 
more  of  an  Esquimau  than  a  Frenchman,  —  I,  who  in 
1799  was  the  finest  coxcomb  in  the  service  !  —  I,  Cha- 
bert,  count  of  the  Empire  !  At  last  the  day  came  when 
I  knew  I  was  an  outcast  on  the  streets,  like  a  pariah 
dog.  That  day  I  met  the  sergeant  I  told  you  of;  his 
name  was  Boutin.  That  poor  devil  and  I  made  the 
finest  pair  of  broken-down  old  brutes  I  have  ever  seen. 
I  met  him,  and  recognized  him  ;  but  he  couldn't  even 
guess  who  I  was.  We  went  into  a  tavern.  When  I 
told  him  my  name  his  mouth  split  open  with  a  roar  of 
laughter  like  a  burst  mortar.  Monsieur,  that  laugh  is 
among  the  bitterest  of  my  sorrows.  It  revealed,  with- 
out disguise,  the  changes  there  were  in  me.     I  saw 


124  Colonel  Chabert. 

m3self  unrecognizable,  even  to  the  humblest  and  most 
grateful  of  my  friends  ;  for  I  had  once  saved  Boutin's 
life,  though  that  was  a  return  for  something  I  owed 
him.  I  need  n't  tell  3"ou  the  whole  story ;  the  thing 
happened  in  Italj',  at  Ravenna.  The  house  where  Bou- 
tin saved  me  from  being  stabbed  was  none  too  decent. 
At  that  time  I  was  not  colonel,  only  a  trooper,  like 
Boutin.  Happil}',  there  were  circumstances  in  the  affair 
known  only  to  him  and  me ;  when  I  reminded  him  of 
them,  his  incredulity  lessened.  Then  I  told  him  the 
story  of  my  extraordinary  fate.  Though  my  ej'es  and 
m^'  voice  were,  he  told  me,  strangely  altered  ;  though  I 
had  neither  hair,  nor  teeth,  nor  eyebrows,  and  was  as 
white  as  an  albino,  he  did  finally  recognize  his  old  colo- 
nel in  the  beggar  before  him,  after  putting  a  vast  number 
of  questions  to  which  I  answered  triumphantly. 

"  Ah ! "  went  on  the  old  soldier,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  "he  told  me  his  adventures  too,  and  the}'  were 
hardly  less  extraordinary  than  mine.  He  was  just  back 
from  the  borders  of  China,  to  which  he  had  escaped 
from  Siberia.  He  told  me  of  the  disasters  of  the  Rus- 
sian campaign  and  Napoleon's  first  abdication ;  that 
news  was  another  of  my  worst  pangs.  "We  were  two 
strange  wrecks  drifting  over  the  globe,  as  the  storms  of 
ocean  drift  the  pebbles  from  shore  to  shore.  We  had 
each  seen  Egypt,  S3'ria,  Spain,  Russia,  Holland,  Ger- 
many, Italy,  Dalmatia,  England,  China,  Tartary,  Si- 


Oolonel  Chahert.  125 

bcria ;  nothing  was  left  for  us  to  know  but  the  Indies 
and  America.  Boutin,  who  was  more  active  on  his 
legs  than  I,  agreed  to  go  to  Paris  as  quickh-  as  he 
could,  and  tell  my  wife  the  state  in  which  I  was.  I 
wrote  a  long  and  detailed  letter  to  Madame  Chabert ;  it 
was  the  fourth  I  had  written  her.  Monsieur,  if  I  had 
had  relatives  of  my  own,  the  thing  could  not  have  hap- 
pened ;  but,  I  must  tell  you  plainl}-,  I  was  a  foundling,  a 
soldier  whose  patrimony  was  his  courage,  the  world  his 
family,  France  his  countr}-,  God  his  sole  protector,  — 
no  !  I  am  wrong  ;  I  had  a  father,  —  the  Emperor ! 
Ah !  if  he,  dear  man,  were  still  among  us ;  if  he  saw 
'  his  Chabert,'  as  he  called  me,  in  such  a  plight,  he 
would  be  furious.  But  what's  to  be  done?  our  sun  has 
set ;  we  are  all  left  out  in  the  cold  !  After  all,  poHtical 
events  might  be  the  reason  of  my  wife's  silence  ;  at  least 
I  thought  so.  Boutin  departed.  He  was  luck}',  he  was, 
poor  fellow !  he  had  two  white  bears  who  danced  and 
kept  him  in  food.  I  could  not  accompany  him;  my 
pains  were  so  great  I  could  not  go  long  distances.  I 
wept  when  we  parted,  having  walked  as  far  as  I  had 
strength  with  the  bears  and  him.  At  Carlsruhe  I  was 
taken  with  neuralgia  in  my  head,  and  la}-  six  weeks  in 
the  straw  of  an  inn  barn. 

"Ah  !  monsieur,"  continued  the  unhappy  man,  "there 
is  no  end  to  what  I  might  tell  you  of  m}'  miserable  life. 
Moral  anguish,  before  which  all  physical  suflferiugs  are 


126  Colonel  Chahert. 

as  nought,  excites  less  pity  because  it  is  not  seen.  I 
remember  weeping  before  a  mansion  in  Strasburg  where 
I  once  gave  a  ball,  and  where  the}-  now  refused  me  a 
crust  of  bread.  Having  agreed  with  Boutin  as  to  the 
road  I  should  follow,  I  went  to  every  post-office  on  my 
way  expecting  to  find  a  letter  and  some  mone}'.  I 
reached  Paris  at  last  without  a  line.  Despair  was 
in  m}'  heart !  Boutin  must  be  dead,  I  thought ;  and 
I  was  right ;  the  poor  fellow  died  at  Waterloo,  as  I 
heard  later  and  accidentall}'.  His  errand  to  my  wife 
was  no  doubt  fruitless.  Well,  I  reached  Paris  just 
as  the  Cossacks  entered  it.  To  me,  that  was  grief  upon 
grief.  When  I  saw  those  Russians  in  France  I  no 
longer  remembered  that  I  had  neither  shoes  on  my  feet 
nor  money  in  my  pocket.  Yes,  monsieur,  my  clothes 
were  literally  in  shreds.  The  evening  of  m}'  arrival  I 
was  forced  to  bivouac  in  the  woods  of  Claye.  The 
chilliness  of  the  night  gave  me  a  sort  of  illness,  I 
hardly  know  what  it  was,  which  seized  me  as  I  was 
crossing  the  faubourg  Saint-Martin.  I  fell,  half-uncon- 
scious, close  by  the  door  of  an  ironmonger.  When  I 
came  to  my  senses  I  was  in  a  bed  at  the  Hotel-Dieu. 
There  I  stayed  a  month  in  some  comfort ;  then  I  was 
discharged.  I  had  no  mone}',  but  I  was  cured  and  I 
had  vay  feet  on  the  blessed  pavements  of  Paris.  With 
what  jo}-  and  speed  I  made  my  wa^-  to  the  rue  du  Mont- 
Blanc,   where    I    supposed  my   wife  was  living  iu  my 


Colonel  Chabert.  127 

liouse.  Bah !  the  rue  du  Mont-Blanc  had  become  the 
rue  de  la  Chaussee-d'Antin.  My  house  was  no  longer 
standing ;  it  was  pulled  down.  Speculators  had  built 
houses  in  my  gardens.  Not  knowing  that  my  Avife  had 
married  Monsieur  Ferraud,  I  could  hear  nothing  of  her. 
At  last  I  went  to  an  old  lawyer  who  formerly  took  charge 
of  my  affairs.  The  good  man  was  dead,  and  his  ofHce 
had  passed  into  the  hands  of  a  younger  man.  The 
latter  informed  me,  to  m}'  great  astonishment,  of  the 
settlement  of  my  estate,  the  marriage  of  mj-  wife,  and 
the  birth  of  her  two  children.  When  I  told  him  that 
I  was  Colonel  Chabert,  he  laughed  so  loudly  in  my  face 
that  I  turned  and  left  him  without  a  word.  My  deten- 
tion at  Stuttgart  made  me  mindful  of  Charenton,  and  I 
resolved  to  act  prudentl}'.  Then,  monsieur,  knowing 
where  my  wife  lived,  I  made  my  wa3'  to  the  house  — 
Ah !  "  cried  the  colonel,  with  a  gesture  of  intense  anger, 
"  I  was  not  received  when  I  gave  a  borrowed  name,  but 
when  I  sent  in  my  own  I  was  turned  out  of  the  house ! 
I  have  stood  night  after  night  leaning  against  the  but- 
tress of  her  porte-cochere  to  see  her  returning  from  a 
ball  or  from  the  theatre.  I  have  plunged  my  eyes  into 
that  carriage  where  I  could  see  the  woman  who  is  mine 
and  who  is  not  mine  !  Oh !  from  that  day  I  have  Uved 
for  vengeance,"  cried  the  old  man,  in  a  hollow  voice, 
standing  suddenty  erect  in  front  of  Derville.  "  She 
knows  I  am  living  ;  she  has  received  thi'ee  letters  which 


128  Colonel  Chahert. 

I  have  written  to  her  since  my  return.  She  loves  me 
no  longer  !  I  —  I  don't  know  if  I  love  her  or  if  I  hate 
her ;  I  long  for  her  and  I  curse  her  by  turns !  She 
owes  her  prosperity  and  all  her  happiness  to  me,  and 
she  denies  me  even  the  meanest  succor !  Sometimes 
I  don't  know  where  to  turn !  " 

The  old  man  fell  back  into  a  chair,  motionless  and 
silent.  Derville  too  was  silent,  contemplating  his 
client. 

"  The  matter  is  serious,"  he  said  at  last  in  a  mechan- 
ical way.  "  Even  admitting  the  authenticity  of  the 
papers  which  ought  to  be  found  at  Heilsberg,  it  is  not 
clear  that  we  can  establish  our  case,  —  certainly  not  at 
once.  The  suit  will  have  to  go  before  three  courts. 
I  must  reflect  at  my  leisure  over  such  a  case.  It  is 
exceptional." 

"Oh!"  replied  the  colonel,  coldly,  lifting  his  head 
with  a  proud  gesture,  "  if  I  am  compelled  to  succumb, 
I  can  die,  —  but  not  alone." 

With  the  words  the  old  man  seemed  to  vanish ;  the 
eyes  of  the  man  of  energy  shoue  with  the  fires  of  desire 
and  vengeance. 

"  Perhaps  we  shall  have  to  compromise,"  said  the 
law3'er. 

"  Compromise!  "  repeated  Colonel  Chabert.  "Am 
I  dead,  or  am  I  living?" 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  lawj^er,   "you  will,   I  hope, 


Colonel   Chabert.  129 

follow  ni}'  advice.  Your  cause  shall  be  my  cause. 
You  will  soon,  I  trust,  see  the  true  interest  I  take 
in  your  situation,  which  is  almost  without  precedent 
in  legal  annals.  Meantime  let  me  give  you  an  order 
on  my  notary,  who  will  remit  you  fift}'  francs  every 
ten  days  on  your  receipt.  It  is  not  desirable  that  you 
should  come  here  for  this  monc}'.  If  you  are  Colonel 
Chabert  you  ought  not  to  be  beholden  to  an}'  one.  I 
shall  make  these  advances  in  the  form  of  a  loan.  You 
have  property'  to  recover;  you  are  a  rich  man." 

This  last  delicate  consideration  for  his  feelings 
brought  tears  from  the  old  man's  eyes.  Derville  rose 
abruptl}',  for  assuredly  it  is  not  the  thing  for  a  lawj-cr 
to  show  feeling  ;  he  went  into  his  private  study  and 
returned  presently  with  an  unsealed  letter,  which  he 
gave  to  Colonel  Chabert.  When  the  old  man  took  it 
he  felt  two  gold  pieces  within  the  paper. 

"Tell  me  precisely  what  the  papers  are;  give  me 
the  exact  name  of  the  town  and  kingdom,"  said  the 
lawyer. 

The  colonel  dictated  the  necessar}'  information  and 
corrected  the  spelling  of  the  names.  Then  he  took 
his  hat  in  one  hand,  looked  at  Dennlle,  offered  him 
the  other  hand,  a  hornj-  hand,  and  said  in  a  simple 
way,  — 

"After  the  Emperor  you  are  the  man  to  whom  I 
owe  most.     You  are  a  noble  man." 


130  Colonel  Chahert. 

The  lawyer  clasped  the  colonel's  hand,  and  went 
with  him  to  the  stairway  to  Ught  him  down. 

"  Boucard,"  said  the  law^'er  to  his  head-clerk,  whom 
he  summoned,  "  I  have  just  heard  a  tale  which  may 
cost  me  some  monej'.  If  I  am  deceived  I  shall  never 
regret  what  I  pay,  for  I  shall  have  seen  the  greaitest 
comedian  of  our  time." 

"When  the  colonel  reached  the  street,  he  stopped 
under  a  lamp,  drew  the  two  pieces  of  twentj'  francs 
each  from  the  letter  which  the  lawyer  had  given  him, 
and  looked  at  them  for  a  moment  in  the  dim  light.  He 
saw  gold  for  the  first  time  in  nine  years. 

"  I  can  smoke  cigars,"  he  said  to  himself. 

About  three  months  after  the  nocturnal  consultation 
of  Colonel  Chabert  with  Derville,  the  notary  whom  the 
latter  had  directed  to  pay  the  stipend  he  allowed  to  his 
singular  client  went  to  the  lawj'cr's  office  one  day  to 
confer  on  some  important  matter,  and  opened  the  con- 
versation by  asking  for  the  six  hundred  francs  he  had 
alread}'  paid  to  the  old  soldier. 

"  Do  30U  find  it  amusing  to  support  the  old  army ? " 
said  the  notar}-,  laughing.  His  name  was  Crottat,  —  a 
young  man  who  had  just  bought  a  practice  in  which  he 
was  head-clerk,  the  master  of  which,  a  certain  Roguin, 
had  lately  absconded  after  a  frightful  failure. 

"  Thank  j'ou,  my  dear  fellow,  for  reminding  me  of 


Colonel  Cliahert.  181 

that  afTair,"  replied  Dcrville.  "  M3'  philanthropy  docs 
not  go  bcj'ond  twenty-five  louis  ;  I  fear  I  have  been  llic 
dupe  of  my  patriotism." 

As  Derville  uttered  the  words  his  eyes  lighted  on  a 
packet  of  papers  the  head-elerk  had  laid  upon  his  desk. 
His  attention  was  drawn  to  one  of  tlie  letters  by  the 
postmarks,  oblong,  square,  and  triangular,  and  red 
and  blue  stamped  upon  it  in  the  Prussian,  Austrian, 
Bavarian,  and  French  post-offices. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  he,  laughing,  "  here  's  the  conclusion  of 
the  corned}' ;  now  we  shall  see  if  I  have  been  taken  in." 

He  took  up  the  letter  and  opened  it,  but  was  unable 
to  read  a  word,  for  it  was  in  German. 

"Boucard!  "  he  called,  opening  the  door  and  hold- 
ing out  the  letter  to  his  head-clerk,  "  go  yourself  and 
get  that  letter  translated,  and  come  back  with  it  as  fast 
as  you  can." 

The  Berlin  notary  to  whom  Derville  had  written  now 
replied  by  informing  the  latter  that  the  papers  he  had 
asked  for  would  reach  him  a  few  days  after  this  letter 
of  advice.  They  were  all,  he  said,  perfectly  regular, 
and  were  fully  certified  with  the  necessary  legal  forms. 
He  added,  moreover,  that  nearly  all  the  witnesses  to 
the  facts  were  still  living,  and  that  the  woman  to  whom 
Monsieur  le  Comte  Chabert  owed  his  life  could  be  found 
in  a  certain  suburb  of  Heilsberg. 

"  It  is  getting  serious,"  said  Derville,  when  Boucard 


132  Colonel  Chabert. 

had  told  him  the  substance  of  the  letter.  "  But  see 
here,  mj  dear  fellow,  I  want  some  information  which  I 
am  sure  j-ou  must  have  in  your  office.  When  that  old 
swindler  of  a  Roguin  —  " 

"We  say  'the  unfortunate  Roguin,'"  said  Crottat, 
laughing,  as  he  interrupted  Derville. 

"  Well —  when  that  unfortunate  Eoguin  ran  off  with 
eight  hundred  thousand  francs  of  his  clients'  money 
and  reduced  many  families  to  pauperism,  what  was 
done  about  the  Chabert  property?  It  seems  to  me  I 
have  seen  something  about  it  among  our  Ferraud 
papers." 

"Yes,"  replied  Crottat,  "I  was  third  clerk  at  the 
time,  and  I  remember  copying  and  studying  the  docu- 
ments. Rose  Chapotel,  wife  and  widow  of  Hyacinthe, 
called  Chabert,  count  of  the  Empire,  grand  officer  of 
the  Legion  of  honor.  They  had  married  without  a  con- 
tract and  therefore  they  held  their  property  in  common. 
As  far  as  I  can  recollect,  the  assets  amounted  to  about 
six  hundred  thousand  francs.  Before  his  marriage 
Comte  Chabert  had  made  a  will  leaving  one  fourth  of 
the  property  of  which  he  might  die  possessed  to  the 
Parisian  hospitals  ;  the  State  inherited  another  fourth. 
There  was  an  auction  sale  and  a  distribution  of  the 
property,  for  the  law3'ers  made  good  speed  with  the 
affair.  Upon  the  settlement  of  the  estate  the  monster 
who  then  ruled  France  made   a  decree  restoring  the 


Colonel  Chahert.  133 

amount  which  hail  gone  to  the  Treasury  to  the  colonors 
widow." 

"  So  that  Comte  Chabert's  individual  property,"  said 
Derville,  "  does  not  amount  to  more  than  three  hundred 
thousand  francs  ?  " 

"Just  that,  old  man,"  said  Crottat;  "you  solicitors 
do  occasionally  get  things  right,  —  though  some  people 
accuse  you  of  arguing  just  as  well  against  as  for  the 
truth." 

Corate  Chabert,  whose  address  was  written  at  the 
foot  of  the  first  receipt  he  had  given  to  the  notary, 
lived  in  the  faubourg  Saint-Marceau,  rue  du  Petit-Ban- 
quier,  with  an  old  sergeant  of  the  Imperial  Guard  named 
Vergniaud,  now  a  cow-keeper.  When  Derville  reached 
the  place  he  was  obliged  to  go  on  foot  to  find  his  client, 
for  his  groom  positively-  refused  to  drive  through  an  un- 
paved  street  the  ruts  of  which  were  deep  enough  to 
break  the  wheels  of  a  cabriolet.  Looking  about  him 
on  all  sides,  the  lawyer  at  length  discovered  at  the  end 
of  the  street  nearest  to  the  boulevard  and  between  two 
walls  built  of  bones  and  mud,  two  shabby  rough  stone 
pillars,  much  defaced  by  wheels  in  spite  of  wooden 
posts  placed  in  front  of  them.  These  pillars  supported 
a  beam  covered  with  a  tiled  hood,  on  which,  painted 
red,  were  the  words,  "  Vergniaud,  Cow-keeper."  To 
the  right  of  the  name  was  a  cow,  and  to  the  left  eggs, 
all  painted  white.     The  gate  was  open. 


134  Colonel   CJiabert. 

At  the  farther  end  of  a  good-sized  3'ard  and  opposite 
to  the  gate  stood  the  house,  if  indeed  that  name  right- 
fully belongs  to  one  of  those  hovels  built  in  the  suburbs 
of  Paris,  the  squalor  of  which  cannot  be  matched  else- 
where, not  even  in  the  most  wretched  of  country'  huts  ; 
for  they  have  all  the  poverty  of  the  latter  without 
their  poetry.  In  fact,  a  cabin  in  the  open  countr}-  has 
the  charm  that  pure  air,  verdure,  the  meadow  vistas, 
a  hill,  a  winding  road,  creepers,  evergreen  hedges,  a 
moss}^  roof  and  rural  implements  can  give  to  it ;  but  in 
Paris  poverty  is  heightened  onlj'  bj-  horrors.  Though 
recently  built,  the  house  seemed  tumbling  to  ruins. 
None  of  its  materials  were  originally  destined  for  it ; 
they  came  from  the  "demolitions"  which  are  daily 
events  in  Paris.  On  a  shutter  made  of  an  old  sign 
Derville  read  the  words  "  Fancj^-articles."  No  two  of 
the  windows  were  alike,  and  all  were  placed  hap-hazard. 
The  ground-floor,  which  seemed  to  be  the  habitable  part 
of  the  hovel,  was  raised  from  the  earth  on  one  side, 
while  on  the  other  the  rooms  were  sunk  below  a  bank. 
Between  the  gate  and  the  house  was  a  slough  of  ma- 
nure, into  which  flowed  the  rain-water  and  the  drainage 
from  the  house.  The  wall  upon  which  this  rickety 
building  rested  was  surrounded  by  hutches  in  which 
rabbits  brought  forth  their  numerous  young.  To  the 
right  of  the  gate  was  the  cow-shed,  which  communicated 
with  the  house  through  a  dairy,  and  over  it  the  hay-loft. 


Colonel  Chabert.  135 

To  the  left  was  a  poultry-yard,  a  stable,  ami  a  pig- 
st}',  all  of  which  were  fiuishod  off,  like  the  house, 
with  shabb}'  plauks  of  white-wood  uailed  one  above  the 
other  and  filled  in  with  rushes.  Like  most  of  the  pur- 
lieus whence  the  elements  of  the  grand  dinners  daily 
eaten  in  Paris  are  derived,  the  yard  in  which  Derville  now 
stood  showed  signs  of  the  haste  required  for  the  prompt 
filling  of  orders.  The  great  tin  cans  in  which  the  milk 
was  carried,  the  smaller  cans  with  their  linen  stoppers 
which  contained  the  cream,  were  tossed  higgledy-piggle- 
dy in  front  of  the  dairy.  The  rags  used  to  wipe  them 
out  were  hanging  in  the  sun  to  dry,  on  lines  fastened 
to  hooks.  The  steady  horse,  of  a  race  extinct  except 
among  milk-dealers,  had  walked  a  few  steps  away  from 
the  cart  and  stood  in  front  of  the  stable,  the  door  of 
which  was  locked.  A  goat  browsed  upon  the  spindling, 
powdery  vine-shoots  which  crept  along  the  cracked  and 
yellow  walls  of  the  house.  A  cat  was  creeping  among 
the  cream-cans  and  licking  the  outside  of  them.  The 
hens,  scared  at  Derville's  advent,  scuttled  away  cack- 
ling, and  the  watch-dog  barked. 

"The  man  who  decided  the  victor}'  of  Eylau  lives 
here ! "  thought  Derville,  taking  in  at  a  glance  the 
whole  of  this  squalid  scene. 

The  house  seemed  to  be  under  the  guardianship  of 
three  little  ragamuffins.  One,  who  had  clambered  to 
the  top  of  a  cart  laden  with  green  fodder,  was  throwing 


136  Colonel  Chahert. 

stones  down  the  cbimnc}-  of  the  next  house,  prolial»h' 
hoping  that  the}'  would  fall  into  the  saucepans  below  ; 
another  was  tr3'ing  to  lead  a  pig  up  the  floor  of  a  tip- 
cart,  one  end  of  which  touched  the  ground,  while  the 
third,  hanging  on  to  the  other  end,  was  waiting  till  the 
pig  was  fairly  in  to  tip  the  cart  up  again.  "When  Der- 
ville  asked  if  that  was  where  Monsieur  Chabert  lived 
none  of  them  answered  ;  and  all  three  gazed  at  him 
with  lively  stupidit}',  —  if  it  is  allowable  to  unite  those 
words.  Derville  repeated  his  question  without  result. 
Provoked  at  the  saucy  air  of  the  little  scamps,  he  spoke 
sharply,  in  a  tone  which  J'oung  men  think  the}'  can  use 
to  children,  and  the  boys  broke  silence  with  a  roar  of 
laughter.  Derville  was  angr}'.  The  colonel,  who  heard 
the  noise,  came  out  of  a  little  room  near  the  dairy  and 
stood  on  the  sill  of  his  door  with  the  imperturbable 
phlegm  of  a  militarj'  training.  In  his  mouth  was  a 
pipe  in  process  of  being  "colored," — one  of  those 
humble  pipes  of  white  clay  with  short  stems  called 
"  muzzle-scorchers."  He  raised  the  peak  of  a  cap 
which  was  horribly  greas}',  saw  DerviUe,  and  came 
across  the  manure  heap  in  haste  to  meet  his  bene- 
factor, calling  out  in  a  friendly  tone  to  the  boj's, 
"Silence,  in  the  ranks!"  The  children  became  in- 
stantly and  respectfully  silent,  showing  the  power  the 
old  soldier  had  over  them. 

"  Wh}'  haven't  you  written  to  me?"  he  said  to  Der- 


Colonel  Chahert.  137 

villo.  "  Go  along  by  the  cow-house  ;  see,  tlic  j.inl  is 
paved  on  that  side,"  he  cried,  noticing  tlie  hesiUitiou 
of  the  young  lawyer,  who  did  not  care  to  set  his  feet 
in  the  wet  manure. 

Jumping  from  stone  to  stone,  Dcrville  at  last  reached 
the  door  through  which  the  colonel  had  issued.  Chabert 
seemed  anno3ed  at  the  necessit}^  of  receiving  him  in  the 
room  he  was  occupying.  In  fact,  there  was  only  one 
chair.  The  colonel's  bed  was  merel}^  a  few  bundles  of 
straw  on  which  his  landlad}'  had  spread  some  ragged  bits 
of  old  carpet,  such  as  milk-women  lay  upon  the  seats  of 
their  wagons,  and  pick  up,  heaven  knows  where.  The 
floor  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  earth  beaten 
hard.  Such  dampness  exuded  from  the  nitrified  walls, 
greenish  in  color  and  full  of  cracks,  that  the  side  where 
the  colonel  slept  had  been  covered  with  a  mat  made  of 
reeds.  The  top-coat  was  hanging  to  a  nail.  Two  pairs 
of  broken  boots  lay  in  a  corner.  Not  a  vestige  of 
under-clothing  was  seen.  The  "  Bulletins  of  the  Grand 
Arm}-,"  reprinted  by  Plancher,  was  lying  open  on  a 
raoukl}'  table,  as  if  constantl}'  read  by  the  colonel, 
whose  face  was  calm  and  serene  in  the  midst  of  this 
direful  povert}'.  His  visit  to  Derville  seemed  to  have 
clianged  the  ver}'  character  of  his  features,  on  which 
the  lawyer  now  saw  traces  of  happy  thought,  the  special 
gleam  which  hope  had  cast. 

"Docs  the  smoke  of  a  pipe  auno}'  you?"  he  asked, 


138  Colonel  Chahert. 

offering  the  one  chair,  and  that  half-denuded  of 
straw. 

"  But  colonel,  joxx  are  shockingly  ill-lodged  here  !  " 

The  words  were  wrung  from  Derville  by  the  natural 
distrust  of  law^-ers,  caused  hy  the  deplorable  experience 
that  comes  to  them  so  soon  from  the  dreadful,  mysteri- 
ous dramas  in  which  the}-  are  called  professionally  to 
take  part. 

"  That  man,"  thought  Derville  to  himself,  "  has  no 
doubt  spent  my  money  in  gratifying  the  thi'ee  cardinal 
virtues  of  a  trooper,  —  wine,  women,  and  cards. 

"True  enough,  monsieur;  we  don't  abound  in  lux- 
ury'. It  is  a  bivouac,  tempered,  as  yoxx  may  sa}-,  by 
friendship  ;  but "  (here  the  soldier  cast  a  searching  look 
at  the  lawyer)  "  I  have  done  wrong  to  no  man,  I  have 
repulsed  no  man,  and  I  sleep  in  peace." 

Derville  felt  there  would  be  a  want  of  delicacy  in 
asking  his  client  to  account  for  his  use  of  the  money  he 
had  lent  him,  so  he  merely  said:  "  Whj'  don't  you 
come  into  Paris,  where  you  could  live  just  as  cheaply' 
as  3-ou  do  here,  and  be  much  better  off  ?  " 

"Because,"  replied  the  colonel,  "  the  good,  kind 
people  I  am  with  took  me  in  and  fed  me  gratis  for 
a  year,  and  how  could  I  desert  them  the  moment  I 
got  a  little  mone}'?  Besides,  the  father  of  these 
young  scamps  is  an  Egyptian." 

"An  Egyptian?" 


Colonel  Chahert.  139 

"Tliat's  what  wc  call  the  troopers  who  returned 
from  the  expedition  to  Eg^'pt,  in  which  I  took  part. 
Not  only  are  we  all  brothers  in  heart,  but  Vergniaud 
was  in  my  regiment ;  he  and  I  shared  the  water  of  the 
desert.  Besides,  I  want  to  finish  teaching  those  little 
monkeys  to  read." 

"  He  might  give  you  a  better  room  for  your  money," 
said  the  law3"er. 

"Bah!"  said  the  colonel,  "the  children  sleep  as  I 
do  on  straw.  He  and  his  wife  have  no  better  bed 
themselves.  They  are  very  poor,  you  see ;  they  have 
more  of  an  establishment  here  than  they  can  manage. 
But  if  I  get  back  my  fortune  —     "Well,  enough  !  " 

"  Colonel,  I  expect  to  receive  your  papers  from 
Heilsberg  to-morrow  ;  your  benefactress  is  still  living." 

"  Oh  !  cursed  money  !  to  think  I  have  n't  any  !  " 
cried  the  colonel,  flinging  down  his  pipe. 

A  "colored"  pipe  is  a  precious  pipe  to  a  smoker; 
but  the  action  was  so  natural  and  so  generous  that 
all  smokers  would  have  forgiven  him  that  act  of  leze- 
tobacco ;  the  angels  might  have  picked  up  the  pieces. 

"  Colonel,  your  affair  is  verj'  complicated,"  said 
Derville,  leaving  the  room  to  walk  up  and  down  in 
the  sun  before  the  house. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  the  soldier,  "  perfectly  sim- 
ple. The}-  thought  me  dead,  and  here  I  am !  Give 
me  back  my  wife  and  my  property ;  give  me  the  rank 


140  Colonel   Chahert. 

of  general,  — to  which  I  have  a  right,  for  I  had  passed 
colonel  in  the  Imperial  Guard  the  night  before  the  battle 
of  Eylau." 

"  Matters  are  not  managed  that  way  in  law,"  said 
Derville.  "  Listen  to  me.  You  are  Comte  Chabert,  — 
I  '11  admit  that ;  but  the  thing  is  to  prove  it  legally 
against  those  persons  whose  interest  it  is  to  deny 
j-our  existence.  All  your  papers  and  documents  will 
be  disputed  ;  and  the  very  first  discussions  will  open  a 
dozen  or  more  preliminary  questions.  Every  step  will 
be  fought  over  up  to  the  supreme  court.  All  that  will 
involve  expensive  suits,  which  will  drag  along,  no  matter 
how  much  energ}'  I  put  into  them.  Your  adversaries 
will  demand  an  inquiry,  which  we  cannot  refuse,  and 
which  will  perhaps  necessitate  sending  a  commission 
to  Prussia.  But  suppose  all  went  well,  and  you  were 
promptly  and  legally  recognized  as  Colonel  Chabert, 
what  then  ?  Do  we  know  how  the  question  of  Ma- 
dame Ferraud's  innocent  bigamy  would  be  decided  ? 
Here  's  a  case  where  the  question  of  rights  is  outside 
of  the  Code,  and  can  be  decided  by  the  judges  only 
under  tlie  laws  of  conscience,  as  a  jury  does  in  many 
delicate  cases  which  social  perversities  bring  up  in 
criminal  courts.  Now,  here 's  a  point :  you  had  no 
children  by  your  marriage,  and  Monsieur  Ferraud  has 
two  ;  the  judges  may  annul  the  marriage  where  the  ties 
are  weakest,  in  favor  of  a  marriage  which  involves  the 


Colonel  Chahert.  141 

well-beiug  of  children,  admitting  that  the  parents  mar- 
ried in  good  failli.  Would  it  be  a  fine  or  moi:d  posi- 
tion for  you,  at  your  age,  and  under  these  circumstances, 
to  insist  on  having  —  will  ye,  nill  ye  —  a  wife  who  no 
longer  loves  you?  You  would  have  against  you  a  hus- 
band and  wife  who  are  powerful  and  able  to  bring  in- 
fluence upon  the  judges.  The  case  has  many  elements 
of  duration  in  it.  You  may  spend  years  and  grow  an 
old  man  still  struggling  with  the  sharpest  grief  and 
anxiet}'." 

"  But  m}'  property?  " 
*'  You  think  you  have  a  large  fortune?" 
*'  I  had  an  income  of  thirty  thousand  francs." 
"  My  dear  colonel,  in  1799,  before  your  marriage, 
you  made  a  will  leaving  a  quarter  of  your  whole  prop- 
erty to  the  hospitals." 
"That  is  true." 

"  Well,  you  were  supposed  to  be  dead ;  then  of 
course  an  inventory  of  your  property'  was  made  and 
the  whole  wound  up  in  order  to  give  that  fourth  part 
to  the  said  hospitals.  Your  wife  had  no  scruples  about 
cheating  the  poor.  The  inventory,  in  which  she  took 
care  not  to  mention  the  cash  on  hand  or  her  jewehy, 
or  the  full  amount  of  the  silver,  and  in  which  the  fur- 
niture was  appraised  at  two-thirds  below  its  real  value 
(either  to  please  her  or  to  lessen  the  treasur}'  tax,  for  ap- 
praisers are  liable  for  the  amount  of  their  valuations) ,  — 


142  Colonel  Chahert. 

this  inventory,  I  say,  gave  your  property  as  amounting 
to  six  hundred  thousand  francs.  Your  widow  had  a 
legal  right  to  half.  Everything  was  sold  and  bought 
in  by  her ;  she  gained  on  the  whole  transaction,  and 
the  hospitals  got  their  seventy-five  thousand  francs. 
Then,  as  the  Treasury  inherited  the  rest  of  j'our  prop- 
ertj'  (for  you  had  not  mentioned  your  wife  in  your 
will),  the  Emperor  made  a  decree  returning  the  portion 
which  reverted  to  the  Treasury  to  your  widow.  Now, 
then,  the  question  is,  to  what  have  you  any  legal  right  ? 
—  to  three  hundred  thousand  francs  onlj',  less  costs." 

"You  call  that  justice?"  said  the  colonel,  thunder- 
struck. 

"Of  course." 

"  Fine  justice  !  " 

"It  is  always  so,  my  poor  colonel.  You  see  now 
that  what  you  thought  so  easy  is  not  easy  at  all.  Ma- 
dame Ferraud  may  also  tr}'  to  keep  the  portion  the 
Emperor  returned  to  her." 

"  But  she  was  not  a  widow,  and  therefore  the  decree 
was  null." 

"  I  admit  that.  But  everything  can  be  argued.  Lis- 
ten to  me.  Under  these  circumstances,  I  think  a  com- 
promise is  the  best  thing  both  for  you  and  for  her. 
You  could  get  a  larger  sum  that  way  than  by  assert- 
ing your  rights." 

"  It  would  be  selling  my  wife  !  " 


Colonel  Chahert.  143 

"  "With  an  income  of  twent3'-four  thousand  fiancs 
you  would  be  in  a  position  to  find  another  who  would 
suit  you  better  and  make  you  happier.  I  intend  to  go 
and  see  the  Comtesse  Ferraud  to-day,  and  find  out  how 
the  land  lies ;  but  I  did  not  wish  to  take  that  step  with- 
out letting  you  know." 
"  We  will  go  together." 

"  Dressed  as  you  are?  "  said  the  law3-er.     "  No,  no, 
colonel,  no  !     You  might  lose  your  case." 
"Can  I  win  it?" 

"  Yes,  under  all  aspects,"  answered  Derville.  "  But 
my  dear  Colonel  Chabert,  there  is  one  thing  you  pay 
no  heed  to.  I  am  not  rich,  and  my  practice  is  not 
yet  wholly  paid  for.  If  the  courts  should  be  willing 
to  grant  you  a  provisional  maintenance  they  will  only 
do  so  after  recognizing  your  claims  as  Colonel  Chabert, 
grand  officer  of  the  Legion  of  honor." 

"  So  I  am  !  "  said  the  old  man,  naively,  "  grand  officer 
of  the  Legion  of  honor,  —  I  had  forgotten  that." 

"Well,  as  I  was  sa3-ing,"  resumed  Derville,  "till 
then  you  will  have  to  bring  suits,  pay  lawyers,  serve 
writs,  employ  sheriffs,  and  live.  The  cost  of  those 
preliminary  steps  will  amount  to  more  than  twelve  or 
even  fifteen  thousand  francs.  I  can't  lend  you  the 
money  for  I  am  crushed  by  the  enormous  interest  I 
am  forced  to  pay  to  those  who  lent  me  money  to  buy 
my  practice.     Where,  then,  can  you  get  it?  " 


144  Colonel  Chahert, 

Big  tears  fell  from  the  faded  eyes  of  the  old  soldier 
and  rolled  down  his  cheeks.  The  sight  of  these  difl3cul- 
ties  discouraged  him.  The  social  and  judicial  world 
lay  upon  his  breast  like  a  nightmare. 

"  I  will  go  to  the  column  of  the  place  Vendome,"  he 
said,  "  and  cry  aloud, '  I  am  Colonel  Chabert,  who  broke 
the  Russian  square  at  Eylau ! '  The  man  of  iron  up 
there  —  ah  !  he  '11  recognize  me  !  " 

"  They  would  put  3'ou  in  Charenton." 

At  that  dreaded  name  the  soldier's  courage  fell. 

"  Perhaps  I  should  have  a  better  chance  at  the 
ministrj'  of  war,"  he  said. 

"  In  a  government  office?  Well,  try  it,"  said  Der- 
ville.  ''  But  3'ou  must  take  with  you  a  legal  judgment 
declaring  your  death  disproved.  The  government 
would  prefer  to  get  rid  of  the  Empire  people." 

The  colonel  remained  for  a  moment  speechless,  mo- 
tionless, gazing  before  him  and  seeing  nothing,  plunged 
in  a  bottomless  despair.  Militar}'  justice  is  prompt 
and  straight-forward  ;  it  decides  peremptoril}^  and  is 
generally  fair  ;  this  was  the  onl}'  justice  Chabert  knew. 
Seeing  the  labyrinth  of  difficulty  which  la}-  before  him 
and  knowing  that  he  had  no  mone}'  with  which  to  enter 
it,  the  poor  soldier  was  mortally'  wounded  in  that  par- 
ticular power  of  human  nature  which  we  call  will.  He 
felt  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  live  in  a  legal  struggle  ; 
far  easier  to  his  nature  was  it  to  stay  poor  and  a  beg- 


Colonel  Chabert.  145 

gar,  or  to  culist  in  some  cavalry  regiment  if  they  woukl 
still  take  him.  Physical  and  mental  suffering  had  vitiated 
his  body  in  some  of  its  important  organs.  He  was 
approaching  one  of  those  diseases  for  which  the  science 
of  medicine  has  no  name,  the  seat  of  which  is,  in  a  wa}-, 
movable  (like  the  nervous  system  which  is  the  part  of 
our  machinery  most  frequently  attacked),  an  aflcctioa 
which  we  must  fain  call  "  the  spleen  of  sorrow." 
However  serious  this  invisible  but  most  real  disease 
might  be,  it  was  still  curable  by  a  happy  termination 
of  his  griefs.  To  completelj'  unhinge  and  destroy  that 
vigorous  organization  some  final  blow  was  needed, 
some  unexpected  shock  which  might  break  the  weak- 
ened springs  and  produce  those  strange  hesitations, 
those  vague,  incomplete,  and  inconsequent  actions  which 
ph3'siologists  notice  in  all  persons  wrecked  bj'  grief. 

Observing  symptoms  of  deep  depression  in  his  client, 
Derville  hastened  to  say:  "Take  courage;  the  issue 
of  the  affair  must  be  favorable  to  you  in  some  way  or 
other.  Only,  examine  your  own  mind  and  see  if  you 
can  place  implicit  trust  in  me,  and  accept  blindly  the 
course  that  I  shall  think  best  for  you." 

"  Do  what  3'ou  will,"  said  Chabert. 

"  Yes,  but  will  3'ou  surrender  j'ourself  to  me  com- 
pletel}',  like  a  man  marching  to  his  death  ?  " 

"  Am  I  to  live  without  a  status  and  without  a  name? 
Is  that  bearable?  " 

10 


146  Colonel  Chabert. 

"  I  don't  mean  that,"  said  the  lawyer.  "  We  •will 
bring  an  amicable  suit  to  annul  the  record  of  j'our 
decease,  and  also  your  marriage  ;  then  you  will  resume 
your  rights.  You  could  even  be,  through  Comte 
Ferraud's  influence,  restored  to  the  army  with  the 
rank  of  general,  and  yow.  would  certainly  obtain  a 
pension." 

"Well,  go  on,  then,"  replied  Chabert;  "I  trust 
implicitly  to  you." 

"  I  will  send  you  a  power-of-attorney  to  sign,"  said 
Derville.  "  Adieu,  keep  up  your  courage  ;  if  you  want 
money  let  me  know." 

Chabert  wrung  the  lawyer's  hand,  and  stood  with  his 
back  against  the  wall,  unable  to  follow  him  except  with 
his  eyes.  During  this  conference  the  face  of  a  man  had 
every  now  and  then  looked  round  one  of  the  gate  pil- 
lars, behind  which  its  owner  was  posted  waiting  for 
Derville's  departure.  The  man  now  accosted  the  young 
lawj^er.  He  was  old,  and  he  wore  a  blue  jacket,  a 
pleated  white  smock  like  those  worn  by  brewers,  and 
on  his  head  a  cap  of  otter  fur.  His  face  was  brown, 
hollow,  and  wrinkled,  but  red  at  the  cheek-bones  from 
hard  work  and  exposure  to  the  weather. 

'*  Excuse  me,  monsieur,  if  I  take  the  liberty  of 
speaking  to  you,"  he  said,  touching  Derville  on  the 
arm.  ' '  But  I  supposed  when  I  saw  you  that  you 
were  the  general's  friend." 


Colonel  Chahert.  147 

"  Well,"  said  Dcrville,  "what  interest  have  3-ou  in 
him?    Who  are  you?  "  added  the  distrustful  lawyer. 

"I  am  Louis  Vergniaud,"  answered  the  man,  "and 
I  want  to  have  a  word  with  you." 

"  Then  it  is  you  who  lodge  the  Comte  Chabert  in  this 
way,  is  it? " 

"  Pardon  it,  monsieur.  He  has  the  best  room  in  the 
house.  I  would  have  given  him  mine  if  I  had  had  one, 
and  slept  myself  in  the  stable.  A  man  who  has  suffered 
as  he  has  and  who  is  teaching  m}^  kids  to  read,  a  gen- 
eral, an  Egyptian,  the  first  heutenant  under  whom  I 
served,  —  wh}',  all  I  have  is  his !  I  've  shared  all 
with  him.  Unluckily  it  is  so  little,  —  bread  and  milk 
and  eggs  !  However,  when  you  're  on  a  campaign  30U 
must  live  with  the  mess ;  and  little  as  it  is,  it  is 
given  with  a  full  heart,  monsieur.  But  he  has  vexed 
us." 

"He!" 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  vexed  us  ;  there  's  no  going  behind 
that.  I  took  this  establishment,  which  is  more  than  I 
can  manage,  and  he  saw  that.  It  troubled  him,  and  he 
would  do  my  work  and  take  care  of  the  horse  !  I  kept 
saying  to  him,  'No,  no,  my  general!'  But  there!  he 
only  answered,  '  Am  I  a  lazybones?  don't  I  know  how- 
to  put  my  shoulder  to  the  wheel  ? '  So  I  gave  notes  for 
the  value  of  my  cow-house  to  a  man  named  Grados. 
Do  you  know  him,  monsieur?" 


148  Colonel  Chabert. 

"  But,  my  good  friend,  I  have  n't  the  time  to  listen 
to  all  this.  Tell  me  only  how  Colonel  Chabert  vexed 
you." 

"  He  did  vex  us,  monsieur,  just  as  true  as  my  name 
is  Louis  Vergniaud,  and  my  wife  cried  about  it.  He 
heard  from  the  neighbors  that  I  couldn't  meet  that 
note ;  and  the  old  fellow,  without  a  word  to  us,  took 
all  you  gave  him,  and,  little  by  little,  paid  the  note  \ 
Wasn't  it  a  trick  !  My  wife  and  I  knew  he  went  with- 
out tobacco  all  that  time,  poor  old  man !  But  now, 
3'es,  he  has  the  cigars,  — I  'd  sell  my  own  self  sooner ! 
But  it  does  vex  us.  Now,  I  propose  to  you  to  lend  me 
on  this  establishment  three  hundred  francs,  so  that  we 
ma}-  get  him  some  clothes  and  furnish  his  room.  He 
thinks  he  has  paid  us,  doesn't  he?  Well,  the  truth  is, 
he  has  made  us  his  debtors.  Yes,  he  has  vexed  us ; 
he  shouldn't  have  played  us  such  a  trick,  —  wasn't  it 
almost  an  insult?  Such  friends  as  we  are!  As  true 
as  my  name  is  Louis  Vergniaud,  I  will  mortgage  myself 
rather  than  not  return  you  that  monej'." 

Derville  looked  at  the  cow-keeper,  then  he  made  a 
step  backward  and  looked  at  the  house,  the  3'ard,  the 
the  manure,  the  stable,  the  rabbits,  and  the  children. 

"  Faith  !  "  thought  he  to  himself,  "I  do  believe  one  of 
the  characteristics  of  virtue  is  to  own  nothing.  Yes," 
he  said  aloud,  "  3'ou  shall  have  your  three  hundred 
francs,  and  more  too.    But  it  is  not  I  who  give  them 


Colonel  Chahert.  149 

to  you,  it  is  tlio  colonel ;  he  will  be  vieli  enough  t(^  help 
yon,  and  I  shall  not  deprive  him  of  that  pleasure." 

"  Will  it  be  soon?" 

"  Yes,  soon." 

"Good  God!  how  happy  my  wife  will  be."  The 
tanned  face  of  the  cow-keeper  brightened  into  J03-. 

"  Now,"  thought  Derville  as  he  jumped  into  his 
cabriolet,  "  to  face  the  enemy.  She  must  not  see  our 
game,  but  we  must  know  hers,  and  win  it  at  one  trick. 
She  is  a  woman.  What  are  women  most  afraid  of  ? 
Why,  of—" 

He  began  to  study  the  countess's  position,  and  fell 
into  one  of  those  deep  reveries  to  which  great  poli- 
ticians are  prone  when  they  prepare  their  plans  and  try 
to  guess  the  secrets  of  foreign  powers.  Lawyers  are, 
in  a  way,  statesmen,  to  whom  the  management  of  indi- 
vidual interests  is  intrusted.  A  glance  at  the  situ- 
ation of  Monsieur  le  Comte  Ferraud  and  his  wife  is 
necessary  for  a  full  comprehension  of  the  lawyer's 
genius. 

Monsieur  le  Comte  Ferraud  was  the  son  of  a  former 
councillor  of  the  parliament  of  Paris,  who  had  emigrated 
during  the  Terror,  and  who,  though  he  saved  his  head, 
lost  his  property.  He  returned  to  France  under  the 
Consulate,  and  remained  faithful  to  the  interests  of 
Louis  XVnL,  in  whose  suite  his  father  had  been  before 
the  Revolution.     His  son,  therefore,  belonged  to  that 


150  Colonel  CTialert. 

section  of  the  faubourg  Saint-Germain  which  nobly  re- 
sisted the  Napoleonic  seductions.  The  young  count's 
reputation  for  good  sense  and  sagacity  when  he  was 
called  simply  ''  Monsieur  Ferraud  "  made  him  the  object 
of  a  few  imperial  blandishments  ;  for  the  Emperor  took 
as  much  satisfaction  in  his  conquests  over  the  aris- 
tocracy as  he  did  in  winning  a  battle.  The  count  was 
promised  the  restitution  of  his  title,  also  that  of  all 
his  property  which  was  not  sold,  and  hopes  were  held 
out  of  a  ministry  in  the  future,  and  a  senatorship.  The 
Emperor  failed.  At  the  time  of  Comte  Chabert's  death 
Monsieur  Ferraud  was  a  young  man  twenty-six  years 
of  age,  without  fortune,  agreeable  in  appearance  and 
manner,  and  a  social  success,  whom  the  faubourg  Saint- 
Germain  adopted  as  one  of  its  distinguished  figures. 

Madame  la  Comtesse  Chabert  had  managed  the 
property  derived  from  her  late  husband  so  well  that 
after  a  widowhood  of  eighteen  months  she  possessed 
an  income  of  nearly  forty  thousand  francs  a  year. 
Her  marriage  with  the  young  count  was  not  regarded 
as  news  by  the  coteries  of  the  faubourg.  Napoleon, 
who  was  pleased  with  an  alliance  which  met  his  ideas 
of  fusion,  returned  to  Madame  Chabert  the  monej' 
derived  by  the  Treasury  from  her  late  husband's  estate  ; 
but  here  again  Napoleon's  hopes  were  foiled.  Madame 
Ferraud  not  only  adored  a  lover  in  the  j'oung  man,  but 
she  was  attracted  by  the  idea  of  entering  that  haughty 


Colonel  Chabert.  151 

society  which,  in  spite  of  its  political  abasement,  was 
still  far  above  that  of  the  imperial  court.  Her  various 
vanities  as  well  as  her  passions  were  gratified  by  this 
marriage.  She  felt  she  was  about  to  become  ' '  an 
elegant  woman." 

When  the  faubourg  Saint-Germain  ascertained  that 
the  3'oung  count's  marriage  was  not  a  defection  from 
their  ranks,  all  salons  were  opened  to  his  wife.  The 
Restoration  took  place.  The  political  fortunes  of  the 
Comte  Ferraud  made  no  rapid  strides.  He  understood 
very  well  the  exigencies  of  Louis  XVIII. 's  position ; 
he  was  one  of  the  initiated  who  waited  until  ' '  the 
revolutionary  gulf  was  closed,"  —  a  royal  phrase  which 
the  liberals  laughed  at,  but  wliich,  nevertheless,  hid  a 
deep  political  meaning.  However,  the  ordinance  with 
its  long-winded  clerical  phrases  quoted  by  Godeschal 
in  the  first  pages  of  this  storj'  restored  to  the  Comte 
Ferraud  two  forests  and  an  estate  which  had  risen  in 
value  during  its  sequestration.  At  the  period  of  which 
we  write  Comte  Ferraud  was  councillor  of  State,  also 
a  director-general,  and  he  considered  his  position  as  no 
more  than  the  opening  of  his  political  career.  Ab- 
sorbed in  the  pursuit  of  an  eager  ambition,  he  depended 
much  on  his  secretar}-,  a  ruined  lawj-er  named  Delbecq, 
—  a  man  who  was  more  than  able,  one  who  knew  every 
possible  resource  of  pettifogging  sophistr}',  to  whom 
the  count  left  the  management  of  all  his  private  affairs. 


152  Colonel  Chahert. 

This  clever  iDractitioner  understood  liis  position  in  the 
count's  household  far  too  well  not  to  be  honest  out  of 
policy.  He  hoped  for  some  place  under  government 
through  the  influence  of  his  patron,  whose  property  he 
took  care  of  to  the  best  of  his  ability.  His  conduct  so 
completely  refuted  the  dark  story  of  his  earlier  life 
that  he  was  now  thought  to  be  a  calumniated  man. 

The  countess,  however,  with  the  shrewd  tact  of  a 
woman,  fathomed  the  secretary,  watched  him  carefully, 
and  knew  so  well  how  to  manage  him,  that  she  had 
alread}'  largely  increased  her  fortune  by  his  help.  She 
contrived  to  convince  Delbecq  that  she  ruled  Monsieur 
Ferraud,  and  promised  that  she  would  get  him  made 
judge  of  a  municipal  court  in  one  of  the  most  impor- 
tant cities  in  France  if  he  devoted  himself  wholl}'  to 
her  interests.  The  promise  of  an  irremovable  office, 
which  would  enable  him  to  marry  advantageousl}'  and 
improve  his  political  career  until  he  became  in  the  end 
a  deputy,  made  Delbecq  Madame  Ferraud's  abject  tool. 
His  watchfulness  enabled  her  to  profit  b}'  all  those 
lucky  chances  which  the  fluctuations  of  the  Bourse 
and  the  rise  of  property  in  Paris  during  the  first  three 
yeai-s  of  the  Restoration  offered  to  clever  manipula- 
toi's  of  money.  Delbecq  had  tripled  her  capital  with  all 
the  more  ease  because  his  plans  commended  them- 
selves to  the  countess  as  a  rapid  method  of  making 
her  fortune  enormous.     She  spent  the  emoluments  of 


Colonel  Chahert.  153 

the  count's  various  offices  on  the  household  expenses, 
so  as  to  invest  every  penny  of  her  own  income,  and 
Delbecq  aided  and  abetted  this  avarice  witliout  inquir- 
ing into  its  motives.  Men  of  his  kind  care  nothing 
for  the  discovery  of  any  secrets  that  do  not  affect  their 
own  interests.  Besides,  he  accounted  for  it  naturally  by 
that  thirst  for  gold  which  possesses  nearly  all  Parisian 
women  ;  and  as  he  knew  how  large  a  fortune  Comte  Fer- 
raud's  ambitions  needed  to  support  them,  he  sometimes 
fancied  that  he  saw  in  the  countess's  greed  a  sign  of 
her  devotion  to  a  man  with  whom  she  was  still  in  love. 

Madame  Ferraud  buried  the  motives  of  her  conduct 
in  the  depths  of  her  own  heart.  There  lay  the  secrets 
of  life  and  death  to  her ;  there  is  the  kernel  of  our 
present  history. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  year  1818  the  Restoration 
was  established  on  an  apparently  firm  and  immovable 
basis ;  its  governmental  doctrines,  as  understood  by 
superior  minds,  seemed  likel}-  to  lead  France  into  an 
era  of  renewed  prosperit}-.  Then  it  was  that  society 
changed  front.  Madame  la  Comtesse  Ferraud  found 
that  she  had  made  a  marriage  of  love  and  wealth  and 
ambition.  Still  3'oung  and  beautiful,  she  played  the 
part  of  a  woman  of  fashion  and  lived  in  the  court  at- 
mosphere. Rich  herself,  and  rich  through  her  husband, 
who  had  the  credit  of  being  one  of  the  ablest  men  of 
the  royalist  party,  a  friend  of  the  king  and  likelj'  to 


154  Colonel  Chabert. 

become  a  minister,  she  belonged  to  the  aristocracy  and 
shared  its  glamour. 

In  the  midst  of  this  triumphant  prosperity  a  moral 
cancer  fastened  upon  her.  Men  have  feelings  which 
women  guess  in  spite  of  every  effort  made  by  such  men 
to  bury  them.  At  the  time  of  the  king's  first  return 
Comte  Ferraud  was  conscious  of  some  regrets  for  his 
marriage.  The  widow  of  Colonel  Chabert  had  brought 
him  no  useful  connections ;  he  was  alone  and  without 
influence,  to  make  his  way  in  a  career  full  of  obstacles 
and  full  of  enemies.  Then,  perhaps,  after  he  had  coolly 
judged  his  wife,  he  saw  certain  defects  of  education 
which  made  her  unsuitable,  and  unable,  to  further  his 
projects.  A  word  he  once  said  about  Talle^'rand's  mar- 
riage enlightened  the  countess  and  showed  her  that  if 
the  past  had  to  be  done  over  again  he  would  never 
make  her  his  wife.  What  woman  would  forgive  that 
regret,  containing  as  it  did,  the  germs  of  all  insults, 
na}',  of  all  crimes  and  all  repudiations ! 

Let  us  conceive  the  wound  that  this  discovery  made 
in  the  heart  of  a  woman  who  feared  the  return  of  her 
first  husband.  She  knew  that  he  lived ;  she  had  re- 
pulsed him.  Then,  for  a  short  time,  she  heard  no  more 
of  him,  and  took  comfort  in  the  hope  that  he  was  killed 
at  Waterloo  together  with  the  imperial  eagles  and  Bou- 
tin. She  then  conceived  the  idea  of  binding  her  second 
husband  to  her  by  the  strongest  of  ties,  by  a  chain  of 


Colonel   Chahert.  165 

gold  ;  and  she  determined  to  be  so  rich  that  her  great 
fortune  should  make  that  second  marriage  indissoluble 
if  by  chance  Comte  Chabert  reappeared.  He  had  rea[)- 
pcared  ;  and  she  was  unable  to  understand  why  the 
struggle  she  so  much  dreaded  was  not  begun.  Per- 
haps the  man's  sufferings,  perhaps  an  illness  had  de- 
livered her  from  him.  Perhaps  he  was  half-crazy  and 
Chareuton  might  restore  his  reason.  She  was  not  wil- 
ling to  set  Delbecq  or  the  poUce  on  his  traces,  for  fear 
of  putting  herself  in  their  power,  or  bringing  on  a  ca- 
tastrophe. There  are  manj'  women  in  Paris  who,  like 
the  Comtesse  Ferraud,  are  living  secretly  with  moral 
monsters,  or  skirting  the  edges  of  some  abyss ;  they 
make  for  themselves  a  callus  over  the  region  of  their 
wound  and  still  continue  to  laugh  and  be  amused. 

"There  is  something  very  singular  in  Comte  Fer- 
raud's  situation,"  said  Derville  to  himself,  after  long 
meditation,  as  the  cabriolet  stopped  before  the  gate  of 
the  hotel  Ferraud  in  the  rue  de  Varennes.  "  How  is  it 
that  he,  so  wealthy  and  a  favorite  of  the  king,  is  not  al- 
ready* a  peer  of  France  ?  Perhaps  Madame  de  Grandlieu 
is  right  in  saying  that  the  king's  policy  is  to  give  higher 
importance  to  the  peerage  by  not  lavishing  it.  Besides, 
the  son  of  a  councillor  of  the  old  parliament  is  neither 
a  Crillon  nor  a  Eohan.  Comte  Ferraud  can"  enter  the 
upper  Chamber  only,  as  it  were,  on  sufferance.  But  if 
his  marriage  were  ruptured  would  n't  it  be  a  satisfac- 


156  Colonel   Chahert. 

tion  to  the  king  if  the  peerage  of  some  of  those  old 
senators  who  have^  daughters  onl}'  could  descend  to 
him?  Certainly  that's  a  pretty  good  fear  to  dangle 
before  the  countess,"  thought  Derville,  as  he  went  up 
the  steps  of  the  hotel  Ferraud. 

Without  knowing  it  the  lawyer  had  laid  his  finger  on 
the  secret  wound,  he  had  plunged  his  hand  into  the  can- 
cer that  was  destroying  Madame  Ferraud's  life.  She 
received  him  in  a  pretty  winter  dining-room,  where  she 
was  breakfasting  and  plaj'ing  with  a  monkey,  which  was 
fastened  by  a  chain  to  a  sort  of  little  post  with  iron 
bars.  The  countess  was  wrapped  in  an  elegant  morn- 
ing-gown ;  the  curls  of  her  pretty-  hair,  carelessly  caught 
up,  escaped  from  a  little  cap  which  gave  her  a  piquant 
air.  She  was  fresh  and  smiling.  The  table  glittered 
with  the  silver-gilt  service,  the  plate,  the  mother-of- 
pearl  articles ;  rare  plants  were  about  her,  growing  in 
splendid  porcelain  vases. 

As  the  lawyer  looked  at  Comte  Chabert's  vrife,  rich 
with  his  property,  surrounded  by  luxury,  and  she  her- 
self at  the  apex  of  society,  while  the  unhappy  husband 
lived  with  the  beasts  in  a  cow-house,  he  said  to  him- 
self: "  The  moral  of  this  is  that  a  prettj-  woman  will 
never  acknowledge  a  husband,  nor  even  a  lover,  in  a 
man  with-  an  old  topcoat,  a  shabby  wig,  and  broken 
boots."  A  bitter  and  satirical  smile  expressed  the 
half-philosophic,  half-sarcastic    ideas    that    necessarily 


Colonel  Chahert.  157 

come  to  a  man  wlio  is  so  placed  that  he  sees  to  tlic 
bottom  of  things  in  spite  of  the  lies  unck-r  which  so  many 
Parisian  families  hide  their  existence. 

"  Good  morning,  Monsieur  Dcrville,"  said  the  counfc- 
ess,  continuing  to  make  the  monkey  drink  coffee. 

"  Madame,"  be  said,  abruptly,  for  he  was  offended  at 
the  careless  tone  in  which  the  countess  greeted  him. 
' '  I  have  come  to  talk  to  you  on  a  serious  matter." 

"Oh!  I  am  so  very  sorry,  but  the  count  is  ab- 
sent —  " 

"  I  am  glad,  madame ;  for  he  would  be  out  of  place 
at  this  conference.  Besides,  I  know  from  Delbecq  that 
you  prefer  to  do  business  yourself,  without  troubling 
Monsieur  le  comte." 

"Very  good;  then  I  will  send  for  Delbecq,"  she 
said. 

"He  could  do  you  no  good,  clever  as  he  is,"  re- 
turned Derville.  "Listen  to  me,  madame;  one  word 
will  suffice  to  make  you  serious.  Comte  Chabert  is 
living." 

' '  Do  3'ou  expect  me  to  be  serious  when  30U  talk 
such  nonsense  as  that?"  she  said,  bursting  into  a  fit 
of  laughter. 

But  the  countess  was  suddenl}'  subdued  b}'  the 
strange  lucidity  of  the  fixed  look  with  which  Derville 
questioned  her,  seeming  to  read  into  the  depths  of  her 
soul. 


158  Colonel   Chahert. 

"  Madame,"  he  replied,  with  cold  and  incisive  gravity, 
"  3'ou  are  not  aware  of  the  dangers  of  3-our  position, 
I  do  not  speak  of  the  undeniable  authenticity  of  the 
papers  in  the  case,  nor  of  the  positive  proof  that  can 
be  brought  of  Comte  Chabert's  existence.  I  am  not 
a  man,  as  j'ou  know,  to  take  charge  of  a  hopeless 
case.  If  you  oppose  our  steps  to  prove  the  falsitj^ 
of  the  death-record,  you  will  certainly  lose  that  first 
suit,  and  that  question  once  settled  in  our  favor  de- 
termines all  the  others." 

"  Then,  what  do  30U  wish  to  speak  of  ? " 

"  Not  of  the  colonel,  nor  of  3-ou  ;  neither  shall  I  re- 
mind you  of  the  costs  a  clever  lawyer  in  possession 
of  all  the  facts  of  the  case  might  charge  upon  you, 
nor  of  the  game  such  a  man  could  play  with  those 
letters  which  3'ou  received  from  your  first  husband 
before  you  married  }'our  second  —  " 

"It  is  false ! "  she  cried,  with  the  violence  of  a 
spoilt  beauty.  "  I  have  never  received  a  letter  from 
Comte  Chabert.  If  any  one  calls  himself  the  colonel 
he  is  a  swindler,  a  galle3'-slave  perhaps,  like  Cogniard  ; 
it  makes  me  shudder  to  think  of  it.  How  can  the  colo- 
nel come  to  life  again?  Bonaparte  himself  sent  me 
condolences  on  his  death  by  an  aid-de-camp ;  and  I 
now  draw  a  pension  of  three  thousand  francs  granted 
to  his  widow  b3'  the  Chambers.  I  have  ever3^  right  to 
reject  all  Chaberts  past,  present,  and  to  come." 


Colonel  Chabert.  159 

"  Happily  wc  are  alone,  madame,  anrl  we  can  lie  at 
our  ease,"  he  said,  coldly,  inwardl}-  amused  by  inciting 
the  anger  which  shook  the  countess,  for  the  purpose 
of  fo)"cing  her  into  some  betrayal,  —  a  trick  familiar  to 
all  lawyers,  who  remain  calm  and  impassible  themselves 
when  their  clients  or  their  adversaries  get  angry. 

"  Now  then,  to  measure  swords ! "  he  said  to  him- 
self, thinking  of  a  trap  he  could  lay  to  force  her  to 
show  her  weakness.  "The  proof  that  Colonel  Chabert's 
first  letter  reached  3'ou  exists,  madame,"  he  said  aloud. 
*'  It  contained  a  draft." 

"  No,  it  did  not ;  there  was  no  draft,"  she  said. 

"  Then  the  letter  did  reach  you,"  continued  Derville, 
smiling.  "You  are  caught  in  the  first  trap  a  lawyer 
la3-s  for  you,  and  yet  you  think  you  can  fight  the 
law ! " 

The  countess  blushed,  turned  pale,  and  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands.  Then  she  shook  off  her  shame,  and  said, 
with  the  coolness  which  belongs  to  women  of  her  class, 
"  As  3-ou  are  the  lawyer  of  the  impostor  Chabert,  have 
the  goodness  to  —  " 

" Madame,"  said  Derville,  interrupting  her,  "I  am 
^    at  this  moment  your  lawyer  as  well  as  the  colonel's. 
Do  30U  think  I  wish  to  lose  a  client  as  valuable  to  me 
as  you  arc?     But  you  are  not  listening  to  me." 

"  Go  on,  monsieur,"  she  said,  graciously. 

♦'Your  fortune  came  from  Monsieur  le  Comte  Cha- 


160  Colonel  Chabert. 

bert,  and  you  have  repudiated  him.  Your  property  is 
colossal,  and  you  let  him  starve.  Madame,  lawyers 
can  be  verj'  eloquent  when  their  cases  are  eloquent; 
here  are  circumstances  which  can  raise  the  hue-and-cry 
of  public  opinion  against  j'ou." 

"  But,  Monsieur,"  said  the  countess,  irritated  by  the 
manner  in  which  Derville  turned  and  returned  her  on 
his  gridiron,  "  admitting  that  your  Monsieur  Chabert 
exists,  the  courts  will  sustain  my  second  marriage  on 
account  of  my  children,  and  I  shall  get  off  by  repaying 
two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  to  Monsieur 
Chabert." 

"  Madame,  there  is  no  telling  how  a  court  of  law 
may  view  a  matter  of  feeling.     If,  on  the  one  hand, 
we  have  a  mother  and  two  children,  on  the  other  there 
is  a  man  overwhelmed  by  undeserved  misfortune,  aged 
by  3'ou,  left  to  starve  by  jour  rejection.     Besides,  the 
judges  cannot  go  against  the  law.     Your  marriage  with 
the  colonel  puts  the  law  on  his  side ;  he  has  the  prior 
right.     But,  if  3'ou  appear  in  such  an  odious  light  you 
may  find  an  adversary  j'ou  little  expect.     That,  ma- 
dame,  is  the  danger  I  came  to  warn  you  of." 
"  Another  adversary ! "  she  said,  "  who? " 
"Monsieur  le  Comte  Ferraud,  madame." 
"Monsieur  Ferraud  is  too  deeply  attached  to  me, 
and  respects  the  mother  of  his  children  too  —  " 
"Ah,  madame,"  said  Derville,  interrupting  her,  "why 


Colonel   Chabert.  Ml 

talk  such  nonsense  to  a  lawyer  who  can  read  hearts. 
At  the  present  moment  Monsieur  Ferraiul  has  not  tin.- 
slijjlitest  desire  to  annul  his  marria<^e,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  he  ailores  30U.  But  if  some  one  went  to  him 
and  told  him  that  his  marriage  could  be  annulled,  that 
his  wife  would  be  arraigned  before  the  bar  of  public 
opinion  —  " 

"  He  would  defend  me,  monsieur." 

"  No,  madame." 

♦»  What  reason  would  he  have  for  deserting  me?  " 

*'  That  of  marrying  the  only  daughter  of  some  peer 
of  France,  whose  title  would  descend  to  him  by  the 
king's  decree." 

The  countess  turned  pale. 

"  I  have  her !  "  thought  Dcrville.  "  Good,  the  poor 
colonel's  cause  is  won.  Moreover,  madame,"  he  said 
aloud,  "  Monsieur  Ferraud  will  feel  the  less  regret  be- 
cause a  man  covered  with  glory,  a  general,  a  count, 
a  grand  oflicer  of  the  Legion  of  honor,  is  certainly 
not  a  derogation  to  you,  —  if  such  a  man  asks  for  his 
wife  —  " 

"Enough,  enough,  monsieur,"  she  cried  ;  "  I  can  have 
no  lawyer  but  you.     "What  must  I  do  ?  " 

"  Compromise." 

"  Does  he  still  love  me?  " 

"  How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  " 

At  these  words  the  countess  threw  up  her  head.  A 
11 


162  Colonel   Chahert. 

gleam  of  hope  shone  in  her  eyes ;  perhaps  she  thought 
of  speculating  on  her  husband's  tenderness  and  winning 
her  way  by  some  female  wile. 

"  I  shall  await  your  orders,  madame ;  you  will  let 
me  know  whether  we  are  to  serve  notices  of  Gomte 
Chabert's  suit  upon  you,  or  whether  you  will  come  to 
my  office  and  arrange  the  basis  of  a  compromise,"  said 
Derville,  bowing  as  he  left  the  room. 

Eight  days  after  these  visits  paid  by  Derville,  on  a 
fine  June  morning,  the  husband  and  wife,  parted  by  an 
almost  supernatural  circumstance,  were  making  their 
way  from  the  opposite  extremes  of  Paris,  to  meet  again 
in  the  office  of  their  mutual  lawyer.  Certain  liberal 
advances  made  by  Derville  to  the  colonel  enabled  the 
latter  to  clothe  himself  in  accordance  with  his  rank. 
He  came  in  a  clean  cab.  His  head  was  covered  with 
a  suitable  wig ;  he  was  dressed  in  dark-blue  cloth  and 
spotlessly-  white  linen,  and  he  wore  beneath  his  waist- 
coat the  broad  red  ribbon  of  the  grand  officers  of  the 
Legion  of  honor.  In  resuming  the  dress  and  the 
habits  of  affluence  he  had  also  recovered  his  former 
martial  elegance.  He  walked  erect.  His  face,  grave 
and  mysterious,  and  bearing  the  signs  of  happiness 
and  renewed  hope,  seemed  younger  and  fuller ;  he  was 
no  more  like  the  old  Chabert  in  the  top-coat  than  a  two- 
sous  piece  is  like  a  forty-franc  coin  just  issued.     All 


Colonel  Chabert.  168 

who  passed  him  knew  him  at  once  for  a  noble  relic  of 
our  old  array,  one  of  those  heroic  men  on  whom  the 
light  of  our  national  glory  shines,  who  rellect  it,  as 
shattered  glass  illuminated  by  the  sun  returns  a  thou- 
sand rays.  Such  old  soldiers  are  books  and  pictures 
too. 

The  count  sprang  from  the  carriage  to  enter  Dervillc's 
ottice  with  the  agility  of  a  young  man.  The  cab  had 
hardly  turned  away  before  a  pretty'  coup(j  with  armorial 
bearings  drove  up.  Madame  la  Comtesse  Ferraud  got 
out  of  it  in  a  simple  dress,  but  one  well  suited  to  dis- 
play her  youthful  figure.  She  wore  a  pretty  drawn 
bonnet  lined  with  pink,  which  framed  her  face  delight- 
fully, concealed  its  exact  outline,  and  restored  its 
freshness. 

Though  the  clients  were  thus  rejuvenated,  the  office 
remained  its  old  self,  such  as  we  saw  it  when  this 
history  began.  Simonnin  was  eating  his  breakfast, 
one  shoulder  leaning  against  the  window,  which  was 
now  open ;  he  was  gazing  at  the  blue  sky  above  the 
courtyard  formed  by  four  blocks  of  black  buildings. 

"  Ha  !  "  cried  the  gutter-jumper,  "  who  wants  to  bet 
a  play  now  that  Colonel  Chabert  is  a  general  and  a 
red-ribbon  ?  " 

"  Derville  is  a  downright  magician,"  said  Godeschal. 

"There's  no  trick  to  play  him  this  time,"  said 
Desroches. 


164  Colonel  CJiahert. 

"His  wife  will  do  that,  the  Comtesse  Ferraud,"  said 
Boucard. 

"  Then  she  '11  have  to  belong  to  two  —  " 

"  Here  she  is  !  "  cried  Simounin. 

Just  then  the  colonel  came  in  and  asked  for  Derville. 

"  He  is  in,  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  Simonnin. 

"  So  you  are  not  deaf,  you  young  scamp,"  said 
Chabert,  catching  the  gutter-jumper  by  the  ear  and 
twisting  it,  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  the  other  clerks, 
who  laughed  and  looked  at  the  colonel  with  the  inquisi- 
tive interest  due  to  so  singular  a  personage. 

Colonel  Chabert  was  in  Derville's  room  when  his 
wife  entered  the  office. 

"  Say,  Boucard,  what  a  queer  scene  there 's  going  to 
be  in  the  master's  room  !  She  can  live  the  even  da3-s 
with  Comte  Ferraud,  and  the  uneven  days  with  Comte 
Chabert  —  " 

"  Leap-year  the  colonel  will  gain,"  said  Godescbal. 

"Hold  your  tongues,  gentlemen,"  said  Boucard,  se- 
verely. "  You  '11  be  overheard.  I  never  knew  an  office 
in  which  the  clerks  made  such  fun  of  the  clients  as  you 
do  here." 

Derville  had  put  the  colonel  into  an  adjoining  room 
b}'  the  time  the  countess  was  ushered  in. 

"  Madame,"  he  said  to  her,  "  not  knowing  if  it  would 
be  agreeable  to  you  to  meet  Monsieur  le  Comte  Chabert, 
I  have  separated  you.     If,  however,  you  wish  —  " 


Colonel  Chabert.  165 

"  I  thank  yon  for  tliat  coiisicU'mtion,  monsieur." 

"  I  liavi'  |)n'[)arc'(l  tlio  dranj^lit  of  an  agrcfniciit,  the 
conditions  of  wliicli  can  be  iliscusseil  here  ami  now,  be- 
tween you  and  Monsieur  Cliabert.  I  will  go  from  one  to 
the  other  and  convey  the  remarks  of  each." 

"Begin,  monsieur,"  said  the  countess,  showing  signs 
of  impatience. 

Dervillc  read  :  "  Between  the  undersigned,  — ■  Mon- 
sieur Ilyacinthe,  called  Chabert,  count,  brigadier-gen- 
eral, and  grand  ollleer  of  the  Legion  of  honor,  living 
in  Paris,  in  the  rue  du  Petit-Banquier,  of  the  lirst  part, 
and  Madame  Rose  C'hapotel,  wife  of  the  above-named 
Monsieur  le  Comte  Chabert,  born  —  " 

'' That  will  do,"  she  said;  "skip  the  preamble  and 
come  to  the  conditions." 

"  Madame,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  the  preamble  explains 
succinctly  the  position  which  you  hold  to  each  other. 
Thi-n,  in  article  one,  30U  recognize  in  presence  of  three 
witnesses,  namel}',  two  notaries,  and  the  cow-keeper 
witli  whom  your  husband  lives,  to  all  of  whom  I  have 
confided  your  secret  and  who  will  keep  it  faithfully,  — 
you  recognize,  I  say,  that  tiie  individual  mentioned  in 
the  accompanying  deeds  and  whose  identity  is  else- 
where established  b\-  affidavits  prepared  b}-  Alexander 
Crotlat,  your  notaiy,  is  the  Comte  Chabert,  your  first 
husband.  In  article  two  Comte  Chabert,  for  the  sake 
of  your  welfare,  agrees  to  make  no  use  of  his  rights 


166  Colonel   Chahert. 

except  under  circumstances  provided  for  in  the  agree- 
ment,—  and  those  circumstances,"  remarked  Derville  in  a 
pai'enthesis,  "  are  the  non-fulfilment  of  the  clauses  of 
this  private  agreement.  Monsieur  Chabert,  on  his 
part,"  he  continued,  "  consents  to  sue  with  you  for  a 
judgment  which  shall  set  aside  the  record  of  his  death, 
and  also  dissolve  his  marriage.  " 

"  But  that  will  not  suit  me  at  all,"  said  the  countess, 
astonished  ;  "  I  don't  wish  a  lawsuit,  you  know  why." 

"  In  article  three,"  continued  the  lawyer,  with  imper- 
turbable coolness,  "  j'ou  agree  to  secure  to  the  said 
Hj'aeinthe,  Comte  Chabert,  an  annuity  of  twentj'-four 
thousand  francs  now  invested  in  the  public  Funds,  the 
capital  of  which  will  devolve  on  you  at  his  death." 

' '  But  that  is  far  too  dear !  "  cried  the  countess. 

"  Can  yon  compromise  for  less?  " 

"  Perhaps  so." 

"  What  is  it  3'ou  want,  madame?  " 

"  I  want  —  I  don't  want  a  suit,     I  want  —  " 

"  To  keep  him  dead,"  said  Derville,  quickly. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  countess,  "  if  he  asks  twentj'- 
four  thousand  francs  a  3'ear,  I  '11  demand  justice." 

"  Yes,  justice  !  "  cried  a  hollow  voice,  as  the  colonel 
opened  the  door  and  appeared  suddenly  before  his  wife, 
with  one  hand  in  his  waistcoat  and  the  other  pointing 
to  the  floor,  a  gesture  to  which  the  memorj^  of  his  great 
disaster  gave  a  horrible  meaning. 


Colonel  Chahert.  167 

"  It  is  he  !  "  said  the  countess  in  her  own  mind. 

"Too  dear?"  continued  the  old  soldier,  "I  gave 
3'ou  a  million  and  now  you  trade  on  my  povert}'.  Well, 
then,  I  will  have  you  and  m}-  property  both  ;  our  mar- 
riage is  not  void." 

"But  monsieur  is  not  Colonel  Chabert!"  cried  the 
countess,  feigning  surprise. 

"  Ah!  "  said  the  old  man,  in  a  tone  of  irony,  "  do 
you  want  proofs?  Well,  did  I  not  take  you  from  the 
pavements  of  the  Palais-Ro3'al  ?  " 

The  countess  turned  pale.  Seeing  her  color  fade  be- 
neath her  rouge,  the  old  soldier,  sorr}-  for  the  suffering  he 
was  inflicting  on  a  woman  he  had  once  loved  ardently, 
stopped  short ;  but  she  gave  him  such  a  venomous  look 
that  he  suddenly  added,  "  You  were  with  —  " 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  monsieur,"  said  the  countess, 
appealing  to  the  lawyer,  "  allow  me  to  leave  this  place. 
I  did  not  come  here  to  listen  to  such  insults." 

She  left  the  room.  Derville  sprang  into  the  office 
after  her ;  but  she  seemed  to  have  taken  wings  and 
was  already  gone.  When  he  returned  to  his  own 
room  he  found  the  colonel  walking  up  and  down  in 
a  paroxysm  of  rage. 

"  In  those  days  men  took  their  wives  where  they 
liked,"  he  said.  "  But  I  chose  ill ;  I  ought  never  to 
have  ti'usted  her ;  she  has  no  heart !  " 

"  Colonel,  you  will  admit  I  was  right  in  begging  you 


168  Colonel  Chahert. 

not  to  come  here !  I  am  now  certain  of  your  identit}-. 
When  you  came  in  the  countess  made  a  little  move- 
ment the  meaning  of  which  was  not  to  be  doubted. 
But  30U  have  lost  your  cause.  Your  wife  now  knows 
that  3'ou  are  unrecognizable." 

"  I  wiU  kill  her." 

"Nonsense!  then  you  would  be  arrested  and  guil- 
lotined as  a  criminal.  Besides,  jo\x  might  miss  jour 
stroke  ;  it  is  unpardonable  not  to  kill  a  wife  when  you 
attempt  it.  Leave  me  to  undo  3'our  foil}',  30U  big 
child !  Go  awa}' ;  but  take  care  of  yourself,  for  she 
is  capable  of  laying  some  trap  and  getting  jou  locked 
up  at  Charenton.  I  will  see  about  serving  the  notices 
of  the  suit  on  her  at  once  ;  that  will  be  some  protection 
to  30U." 

The  poor  colonel  obeyed  his  young  benefactor,  and 
went  awaj',  stammering  a  few  excuses.  He  was  going 
SI0WI3'  down  the  dark  staircase  lost  in  gloom3*  thought, 
overcome  perhaps  by  the  blow  he  had  just  received,  to 
him  the  worst,  the  one  that  went  deepest  to  his  heart, 
when,  as  he  reached  the  lower  landing,  he  heard  the 
rustle  of  a  gown,  and  his  wife  appeared. 

"  Come,  monsieur,"  she  said,  taking  his  arm  with  a 
movement  like  others  he  once  knew  so  well. 

The  action,  the  tones  of  her  voice,  now  soft  and 
gentle,  calmed  the  colonel's  anger,  and  he  allowed  her 
to  lead  him  to  her  carriage. 


Colonel  Chahert.  100 

*'  Get  in,"  she  said,  when  the  footman  Imd  ht  down 
the  steps. 

And  he  suddenly  found  himself,  as  if  by  magic, 
seated  beside  his  wife  in  the  coupe. 

"  Where  to,  madame?"  asked  the  footman. 

"  To  Groslay,"  she  replied. 

The  horses  started,  and  the  carriage  crossed  the 
whole  citj'. 

"Monsieur!"  said  the  countess,  in  a  tone  of  voice 
that  seemed  to  betray  one  of  those  rare  emotions,  few 
in  life,  which  shake  our  whole  being. 

At  such  moments  heart,  fibres,  nerves,  soul,  body, 
countenance,  all,  even  the  pores  of  the  skin,  quiver. 
Life  seems  no  longer  in  us  ;  it  gushes  out,  it  conveys 
itself  like  a  contagion,  it  transmits  itself  in  a  look,  in 
a  tone  of  the  voice,  in  a  gesture,  in  the  imposition  of 
our  will  on  others.  The  old  soldier  trembled,  hearing 
that  word,  that  first,  that  expressive  "Monsieur!" 
It  was  at  once  a  reproach,  a  prayer,  a  pardon,  a  hope, 
a  despair,  a  question,  an  answer.  That  one  word  in- 
cluded all.  A  woman  must  needs  be  a  great  comedian 
to  throw  such  eloquence  and  so  man}'  feelings  into  one 
word.  Truth  is  never  so  complete  in  its  expression  ;  it 
cannot  utter  itself  wholly, — it  leaves  something  to  be 
seen  within.  The  colonel  was  filled  with  remorse  for 
his  suspicions,  his  exactions,  his  anger,  and  he  lowered 
his  eyes  to  conceal  his  feelings. 


170  Colonel   Chahert. 

"  Monsieur,"  continued  the  countess,  after  an  almost 
imperceptible  pause,  "  I  knew  you  at  once." 

"  Rosine,"  said  the  old  soldier,  "  that  word  contains 
the  only  balm  that  can  make  me  forget  my  troubles."  ■ 

Two  great  tears  fell  hotly  on  his  wife's  hands,  which 
he  pressed  as  if  to  show  her  a  paternal  affection. 

"Monsieur,"  she  continued,  "how  is  it  you  did  not 
see  what  it  cost  me  to  appear  before  a  stranger  in  a 
position  so  false  as  mine.  If  I  am  forced  to  blush  for 
what  I  am,  at  least  let  it  be  in  m}'  own  home.  Ought 
not  such  a  secret  to  remain  buried  in  our  own  hearts  ? 
You  will,  I  hope,  forgive  my  apparent  indifference  to 
the  misfortunes  of  a  Chabert  in  whom  I  had  no  rea- 
son to  believe.  I  did  receive  3'our  letters,"  she  said, 
hastily,  seeing  a  sudden  objection  on  her  husband's 
face  ;  ' '  but  they  reached  me  thirteen  months  after  the 
battle  of  Eylau  ;  thej^  were  open,  torn,  dirty  ;  the  writ- 
ing was  unknown  to  me  ;  and  I,  who  had  just  obtained 
Napoleon's  signature  to  my  new  marriage  contract,  sup- 
posed that  some  clever  swindler  was  trj'ing  to  impose 
upon  me.  Not  wishing  to  trouble  Monsieur  Ferraud's 
peace  of  mind,  or  to  bring  future  trouble  into  the  family, 
I  was  right,  was  I  not,  to  take  ever}'  precaution  against 
a  false  Chabert  ? " 

' '  Yes,  3'ou  were  right ;  and  I  have  been  a  fool,  a 
dolt,  a  beast,  not  to  have  foreseen  the  consequences  of 
such  a  situation.     But  where  are  we  going?"  asked  the 


Colonel   Chahert.  171 

colonel,  suddenly  noticing  that  they  had  reached  the 
Barriere  de  la  Chapelle. 

"To  my  countiy-place  near  Grosla}',  in  the  valley 
of  Montmorency,"  she  replied.  "  There,  monsieur,  we 
can  think  over,  together,  the  course  we  ought  to  take. 
I  know  my  duty.  Though  I  am  yours  legally,  I  am  no 
longer  yours  in  fact.  Sureh',  you  cannot  wish  that  we 
should  be  the  common  talk  of  Paris.  Let  us  hide  from 
the"  public  a  situation  which,  for  me,  has  a  mortifying 
side,  and  strive  to  maintain  our  dignit}'.  You  love  me 
still,"  she  continued,  casting  a  sad  and  gentle  look 
upon  the  colonel,  "  but  I,  was  I  not  authorized  to 
form  other  ties?  In  this  strange  position  a  secret 
voice  tells  me  to  hope  in  j'our  goodness,  which  I  know 
so  well.  Am  I  wrong  in  taking  you,  you  onlj",  for  the 
sole  arbiter  of  my  fate?  Be  judge  and  pleader  both  ;  I 
confide  in  your  noble  nature.  Yon  will  forgive  the 
consequences  of  m}'  innocent  fault.  I  dare  avow  to 
you,  therefore,  that  I  love  INIonsicur  Ferraud ;  I  thought 
I  had  the  right  to  love  him.  I  do  not  blush  for  this 
confession  ;  it  may  offend  you.  but  it  dishonors  neither 
of  us.  I  cannot  hide  the  truth  from  you.  When  acci- 
dent made  me  a  widow,  I  was  not  a  mother  —  " 

The  colonel  made  a  sign  with  his  hand  as  if  to  ask 
silence  of  his  wife  ;  and  they  remained  silent,  not  sa}'- 
ing  a  word  for  over  a  mile.  Chabert  fancied  he  saw 
her  little  children  before  him. 


172  Colonel  Chabert. 

"  Rosine ! " 

"Monsieur?" 

"  The  dead  do  wrong  to  reappear." 

"Oh,  monsieur,  no,  no!  Do  not  think  me  ungrate- 
ful. But  3'ou  find  a  mother,  a  woman  who  loves  an- 
other man,  where  jow  left  a  wife.  If  it  is  no  longer  in 
my  power  to  love  you,  I  know  what  I  owe  to  you,  and 
I  offer  you  still  the  devotion  of  a  daughter." 

"Rosine,"  said  the  old  man,  gently,  "I  feel  no  re- 
sentment towards  you.  We  will  forget  all  that  once 
was,"  he  said,  with  one  of  those  smiles  whose  charm  is 
the  reflection  of  a  noble  soul.  "  I  am  not  so  lost  to 
delicacy  as  to  ask  a  show  of  love  from  a  woman  who  no 
longer  loves  me." 

The  countess  gave  him  such  a  grateful  glance  that 
poor  Chabert  wished  in  his  heart  he  could  return  to 
that  grave  at  Eylau.  Certain  men  have  souls  capable 
of  vast  sacrifices,  whose  recompense  to  them  is  the  cer- 
tainty of  the  happiness  of  one  they  love. 

"My  friend,  we  will  talk  of  all  this  later,  with  a 
quiet  mind,"  said  the  countess. 

The  conversation  took  another  turn,  for  it  was  im- 
possible to  continue  it  long  in  this  strain.  Though 
husband  and  wife  constantl}'^  touched  upon  their  strange 
position,  either  by  vague  allusions,  or  grave  remarks, 
they  nevertheless  made  a  charming  journey,  recalling 
many  of  the  events  of  their  union,  and  of  the  Empire. 


Colonel  Chabert.  173 

The  countess  knew  how  to  impart  a  tender  charm  to 
these  memories,  and  to  cast  a  tinge  of  melancholy  upon 
the  conversation,  enough  at  least  to  keep  it  serious. 
She  revived  love  without  exciting  desire,  and  showed 
her  first  husband  the  mental  graces  and  knowledge  she 
had  acquired,  —  trying  to  let  him  taste  the  happiness 
of  a  father  beside  a  cherished  daughter.  The  colonel 
had  known  the  countess  of  the  Empire,  he  now  saw  a 
countess  of  the  Restoration. 

They  at  last  arrived,  through  a  cross-road,  at  a  fine 
park  in  the  little  valley'  which  separates  the  heights  of 
Margency  from  the  pretty  village  of  Groslay.  The 
house  was  a  delightful  one,  and  the  colonel  saw  on 
arriving  that  all  was  prepared  for  their  stay.  Misfor- 
tune is  a  sort  of  talisman,  the  power  of  which  lies  in 
strengthening  and  fulfilling  our  natural  man ;  it  in- 
creases the  distrust  and  evil  tendencies  of  certain 
natures  just  as  it  increases  the  goodness  of  those  whose 
heart  is  sound.  Misfortune  had  made  the  colonel  more 
helpful  and  better  than  he  had  ever  been  ;  he  was  there- 
fore able  to  enter  into  those  secrets  of  woman's  suffer- 
ing which  are  usually  unknown  to  men.  And  yet,  in 
spite  of  his  great  lack  of  distrust,  he  could  not  help 
saying  to  his  wife  :  — 

"  You  seem  to  have  been  sure  of  bringing  me  here?  " 
"Yes,"  she  answered,  "  if  I  found  Colonel  Chabert 
in  the  petitioner." 


174  Colonel  Chabert. 

The  tone  of  truth  which  she  gave  to  that  answer 
dispersed  the  few  doubts  which  the  colonel  already  felt 
ashamed  of  admitting. 

For  three  days  the  countess  was  truly  admirable  in 
her  conduct  to  her  first  husband.  By  tender  care  and 
constant  gentleness  she  seemed  to  try  to  efface  even 
the  memory  of  the  sufferings  he  had  endured,  and  to 
win  pardon  for  the  misfortunes  she  had,  as  she  ad- 
mitted, innocently  caused.  She  took  pleasure  in  dis- 
playing for  his  benefit,  though  alwaj's  with  a  sort  of 
melancholy,  the  particular  charms  under  the  influence 
of  which  she  knew  him  to  be  feeble, — for  men  are 
more  particularl}'  susceptible  to  certain  ways,  to  certain 
graces  of  heart  and  mind ;  and  those  they  are  unable 
to  resist.  She  wanted  to  interest  him  in  her  situation, 
to  move  his  feelings  enough  to  control  his  mind  and  so 
bend  him  absolutel}'  to  her  will.  Resolved  to  take  any 
means  to  reach  her  ends,  she  was  still  uncertain  what 
to  do  with  the  man,  though  she  meant,  undoubtedly',  to 
destro}'  him  socially'. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  she  began  to  feel 
that  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  she  could  no  longer  con- 
ceal the  anxiety  she  felt  as  to  the  result  of  her  manoeu- 
vres. To  obtain  a  moment's  relief  she  went  up  to  her 
own  room,  sat  down  at  her  writing-table,  and  took  off 
the  mask  of  tranquillit}'  she  had  worn  before  the  colonel, 
like  an  actress  returning  weary  to  her  room  after  a 


I 


Colonel  Chahert.  175 

trying  fifth  act  and  falling  half-dead  upon  a  couch, 
while  the  audience  retains  an  image  of  her  to  which  she 
bears  not  the  slightest  resemblance.  She  began  to 
finish  a  letter  already  begun  to  Delbecq,  telling  him  to 
go  to  Derville  and  ask  in  her  name  for  a  sight  of  the 
papers  which  concerned  Colonel  Chabert,  to  copy  them, 
and  come  immediately  to  Groslay.  She  had  hardly 
finished  before  she  heard  the  colonel's  step  in  the  cor- 
ridor ;  for  he  was  coming,  full  of  anxiety,  to  find  her. 

"Oh!  "  she  said  aloud,  "I  wish  I  were  dead!  my 
position  is  intolerable  —  " 

"What  is  it?  is  anything  the  matter?"  said  the 
worthy  man. 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  she  said. 

She  rose,  left  the  colonel  where  he  was,  and  went  to 
speak  to  her  maid  without  witnesses,  telling  her  to  go 
at  once  to  Paris  and  deliver  the  letter,  which  she  gave 
her,  into  Delbecq's  own  hands,  and  to  bring  it  back  to 
her  as  soon  as  he  read  it.  Then  she  went  out  and  seated 
herself  on  a  bench  in  the  garden,  where  she  was  in  full 
view  of  the  colonel  if  he  wished  to  find  her.  He  was 
already  searching  for  her  and  he  soon  came. 

"  Rosine,"  he  said,  "  tell  me  what  is  the  matter." 

She  did  not  answer.  It  was  one  of  those  glorious 
calm  evenings  of  the  month  of  June,  when  all  secret 
harmonies  diffuse  such  peace,  such  sweetness  in  the 
sunsets.     The  air  was  pure,  the  silence  deep,  and  a 


176  "      Colonel  Chahert. 

distant  murmur  of  children's  voices  added  a  sort  of 
melody  to  the  consecrated  scene. 

"  You  do  not  answer  me,"  said  the  coloneL 

"  My  husband  — "  began  the  countess,  then  she 
stopped,  made  a  movement,  and  said,  appealing!}-,  with 
a  blush,  "  What  ought  I  to  say  in  speaking  of  Mon- 
sieur le  Comte  Fen^aud  ?  " 

"  Call  him  your  husband,  my  poor  child,"  answered 
the  colonel,  in  a  kind  tone  ;  "  he  is  the  father  of  your 
children." 

"Well,  then,"  she  continued,  "if  he  asks  me  what  I 
am  doing  here,  if  he  learns  that  I  have  shut  mj^self  up 
"with  an  unknown  man,  what  am  I  to  say?  Hear  me, 
monsieur,"  she  went  on,  taking  an  attitude  that  was 
full  of  dignity,  "  decide  my  fate ;  I  feel  I  am  resigned 
to  everything  —  " 

"  Dear,"  said  the  colonel,  grasping  his  wife's  hands, 
"  I  have  resolved  to  sacrifice  myself  wholly  to  j'our 
happiness  —  " 

"  That  is  impossible,"  she  cried,  with  a  convulsive 
movement.  "Remember  that  in  that  case  you.  must 
renounce  yoMX  own  identity  —  and  do  so  legall3^" 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  colonel,  "does  not  my 
word  satisfy  you  ?  " 

The  term  "  legally"  fell  like  lead  upon  the  old  man's 
heart  and  roused  an  involuntary  distrust.  He  cast  a 
look  upon  his  wife  which  made  her  blush ;  she  lowered 


Colonel  Chahert.  177 

her  eyes,  and  for  a  moment  he  feared  he  should  be 
forced  to  despise  her.  The  countess  was  alarmed  lest 
she  had  startled  the  honest  shame,  the  stern  upright- 
ness of  a  man  whose  generous  nature  and  whose  primi- 
tive virtues  were  well-known  to  her.  Though  these 
ideas  brought  a  cloud  to  each  brow  tlicy  were  suddenly 
dispelled,  harmony  was  restored,  —  and  thus :  A  child's 
cry  resounded  in  the  distance. 

"  Jules,  let  your  sister  alone  !  '■  cried  the  countess. 

"What!  are  your  children  here?"  exclaimed  the 
colonel. 

"  Yes,  but  I  forbade  them  to  come  in  3-our  wa}'." 

The  old  soldier  understood  the  delicacy  and  the 
womanly  tact  shown  in  that  graceful  consideration,  and 
he  took  her  hand  to  kiss  it. 

"  Let  them  come  ! "  he  said. 

The  little  girl  ran  up  to  complain  of  her  brother. 

"  Mamma !  he  plagued  me  —  " 

"Mamma!" 

"It  was  his  fault  —  " 

"It  washers  — " 

The  hands  were  stretched  out  to  the  mother,  and  the 
two  voices  mingled.     It  was  a  sudden,  delightful  picture. 

"  My  poor  children ! "  exclaimed  the  countess,  not 
restraining  her  tears,  "must  I  lose  them?  To  whom 
will  the  court  give  them?  A  mother's  heart  cannot  be 
shared.     I  will  have  them  !  yes,  I  —  " 

12 


178  Colonel  Chabert. 

"  You  are  making  mamma  cry,"  said  Jules,  the  elder, 
with  an  angry  look  at  the  colonel. 

"  Hush,  Jules  !  "  cried  his  mother,  peremptorily. 

The  two  children  examined  their  mother  and  the 
stranger  with  an  indescribable  curiosity. 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  countess,  "  if  I  am  parted  from 
Monsieur  Ferraud,  the}'  must  leave  me  my  children ; 
if  I  have  them,  I  can  bear  all." 

Those  words  brought  the  success  she  expected.  j 

"  Yes,"  ci'ied  the  colonel,  as  if  completing  a  sentence 
he  had  begun  mentally.  "  I  must  return  to  the  grave  ; 
I  have  thought  so  already," 

' '  How  can  I  accept  such  a  sacrifice  ?  "  replied  the 
countess.  "If  men  have  died  to  save  the  honor  of 
their  mistresses,  they  gave  their  lives  but  once.  But 
this  would  be  giving  your  dailj^  life,  3'our  lifetime  !  No, 
no,  it  is  impossible  ;  if  it  were  only  your  existence  per- 
haps it  might  be  nothing,  but  to  sign  a  record  that  3'ou 
are  not  Colonel  Chabert,  to  admit  yourself  an  impostor, 
to  sacrifice  3'our  honor,  to  live  a  lie  for  all  the  da3-s  of 
your  life,  —  no ;  human  devotion  cannot  go  to  such  a 
length !  No,  no !  if  it  were  not  for  my  poor  children 
I  would  fly  with  you  to  the  ends  of  the  earth." 

"But,"  said  Chabert,  "why  can  I  not  live  here,  in 
that  little  cottage,  as  a  friend  and  relative.  I  am  as 
useless  as  an  old  cannon ;  all  I  need  is  a  little  tobacco 
and  the  '  Constitutionuel.' " 


Colond  Chabert.  179 

The  countess  burst  into  tears.  Tlion  followed  a 
struggle  of  generosity  between  them,  fnnn  which  Colo- 
nel Chabert  came  forth  a  conqueror.  One  evening, 
watching  the  mother  in  the  midst  of  her  children, 
deeply  moved  by  that  picture  of  a  home,  influenced, 
too,  b}'  the  silence  and  the  quiet  of  the  country,  he 
came  to  the  resolution  of  remaining  dead ;  no  longer 
resisting  the  thought  of  a  legal  instrument,  he  asked  his 
wife  what  steps  he  should  take  to  secure,  irrevocably, 
the  happiness  of  that  home. 

"  Do  what  you  M-ill,"  replied  the  countess  ;  "  I  declare 
positively  that  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  —  I 
ought  not." 

Delbecq  had  then  been  in  the  house  a  few  days,  and, 
in  accordance  with  the  countess's  verbal  instructions, 
he  had  wormed  himself  into  the  confidence  of  the  old 
soldier.  The  morning  after  this  little  scene  Colonel 
Chabert  accompanied  the  former  lawyer  to  Saint-Leu- 
Taverny,  where  Delbecq  had  already  had  an  agreement 
drawn  up  by  a  notary,  in  terms  so  crude  and  brutal  that 
on  hearing  them  the  colonel  abruptly  left  the  office. 

"  Good  God  !  would  you  make  me  infamous !  whv, 
I  should  be  called  a  forger !  " 

''Monsieur,"  said  Delbecq,  "I  advise  3-ou  not  to 
sign  too  quickly.  You  could  get  at  least  thirty  thou- 
sand francs  a  year  out  of  this  aflTair ;  Madame  would 
give  them." 


180  Colonel  Chabert. 

Blasting  that  scoundrel  emeritus  with  the  luminous 
glance  of  an  indignant  honest  man,  the  colonel  rushed 
from  the  place  driven  b}'  a  thousand  conflicting  feel- 
ings. He  was  again  distrustful,  indignant,  and  merci- 
ful by  turns.  After  a  time  he  re-entered  the  park  of 
Groslay  b}'  a  breach  in  the  wall,  and  went,  with  slow 
steps,  to  rest  and  think  at  his  ease,  in  a  little  study 
built  beneath  a  raised  kiosk  which  commanded  a  view 
of  the  road  from  Saint-Leu. 

The  path  was  made  of  that  j'ellow  earth  which  now 
takes  the  place  of  river-gravel,  and  the  countess,  who 
was  sitting  in  the  kiosk  above,  did  not  hear  the  slight 
noise  of  the  colonel's  footstep,  being  preoccupied  with 
anxious  thoughts  as  to  the  success  of  her  plot.  Neither 
did  the  old  soldier  become  aware  of  the  presence  of  his 
wife  in  the  kiosk  above  him. 

"Well,  Monsieur  Delbecq,  did  he  sign?"  asked  the 
countess,  when  she  saw  the  secretary,  over  the  sunk- 
fence,  alone  upon  the  road. 

"No,  Madame;  and  I  don't  even  know  what  has 
become  of  him.     The  old  horse  reared." 

"  We  shall  have  to  put  him  in  Charenton,"  she  said  ; 
"  we  can  do  it." 

The  colonel,  recovering  the  elasticitj^  of  his  youth, 
jumped  the  ha-ha,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  ap- 
plied the  hardest  pair  of  slaps  that  ever  two  cheeks 
received.     "  Old  horses  kick !  "  he  said. 


Colonel  Chnhert.  181 

His  ai)p;or  onco  over,  the  colonel  Iiad  no  strength  loft 
to  jump  llie  ditch  again.  The  truth  hiy  before  him  in 
its  nakedness.  Ilis  wife's  worils  and  Delhecq's  answer 
had  siiown  him  the  plot  to  which  he  had  so  nearly  been 
a  victim.  The  tender  attentions  he  had  received  were 
the  bait  of  the  trap.  That  thought  was  like  a  sudden 
poison,  and  it  brought  back  to  the  old  hero  his  past 
suirerings,  ph3sical  and  mental.  lie  returned  to  the 
kiosk  through  a  gate  of  the  park,  walking  slowly  like 
a  broken  man.  So,  then,  there  was  no  peace,  no  truce  for 
him  !  Must  he  enter  upon  that  odious  struggle  with  a 
woman  which  Dervillc  had  explained  to  him?  must  he 
live  a  life  of  legal  suits?  must  he  feed  on  gall,  and  drink 
each  morning  the  cup  of  bitterness.  Then,  dreadful 
thought!  where  was  the  money  for  such  suits  to  come 
from.  So  deep  a  disgust  of  life  came  over  him,  that  had 
a  pistol  been  at  hand  he  would  have  blown  out  his  brains. 
Then  he  fell  back  into  the  confusion  of  ideas  which,  ever 
since  his  interview  with  Dervillc  in  the  cow-yard,  had 
changed  his  moral  being.  At  last,  reaching  the  kiosk, 
he  went  up  the  stairs  to  the  upper  chamber,  whose  oriel 
windows  looked  out  on  all  the  enchanting  perspectives 
of  that  well-known  valley,  and  where  he  found  his  wife 
sitting  on  a  chair.  The  countess  was  looking  at  the 
landscape,  with  a  calm  and  quiet  demeanor,  and  that 
impenetrable  countenance  which  certain  determined 
women  know  so  well  how  to  assume.     She  dried  her 


182  Colonel  Chahert. 

eyes,  as  though  she  had  shed  tears,  and  plaj^ed,  as  if 
abstractedly,  with  the  ribbons  of  her  sash.  Neverthe- 
less, in  spite  of  this  apparent  composure,  she  could  not 
prevent  herself  from  trembling  when  she  saw  her  noble 
benefactor  before  her,  —  standing,  his  arms  crossed,  his 
face  pale,  his  brow  stern, 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  so  fixedly  for  a 
moment  that  he  forced  her  to  blush ;  •'  Madame,  I  do 
not  curse  3'ou,  but  I  despise  j'ou.  I  now  thank  the 
fate  which  has  parted  us.  I  have  no  desire  for  ven- 
geance ;  I  have  ceased  to  love  3'ou.  I  want  nothing 
from  you.  Live  in  peace  upon  the  faith  of  m}'  word ; 
it  is  worth  more  than  the  legal  joapers  of  all  the  notaries 
in  Paris.  I  shall  never  take  the  name  I  made,  per- 
haps, illustrious.  Henceforth,  I  am  but  a  poor  devil 
named  Hyacinthe,  who  asks  no  more  than  a  place  in 
God's  sunlight.     Farewell  —  " 

The  countess  flung  herself  at  his  feet  and  tried  to 
hold  him  by  catching  his  hands,  but  he  repulsed  her 
with  disgust,  saying,  "Do  not  touch  me!" 

The  countess  made  a  gesture  which  no  description 
can  portra}^  when  she  heard  the  sound  of  her  husband's 
departing  steps.  Then,  with  that  profound  sagacity 
which  comes  of  great  wickedness,  or  of  the  savage, 
material  selfishness  of  this  world,  she  felt  she  might 
live  in  peace,  relying  on  the  promise  and  the  contempt 
of  that  loyal  soldier. 


Colonel   Chahert.  183 

Chabort  disappeared.  The  cow-keeper  failed  and 
became  a  cab-driver.  Tcrluips  the  colonel  al  lirst 
found  some  such  occupation.  Perhaps,  like  a  stone 
flung  into  tlio  rapids,  he  went  from  fall  to  fall  until  he 
sank  engulfed  in  that  great  pool  of  filth  and  penury 
which  welters  in  the  streets  of  Paris. 

Six  months  after  these  events  Dei-ville,  wlio  had 
heard  nothing  of  Colonel  Chabert  or  of  the  Comtesse 
Ferraud,  thought  that  the}-  had  probably  settled  on  a 
compromise,  and  that  the  countess,  out  of  spite,  had 
employed  some  other  lawyer  to  draw  the  papers.  Ac- 
cordingly, one  morning  he  summed  up  the  amounts  ad- 
vanced tx)  the  said  Chabert,  added  the  costs,  and 
requested  the  Comtesse  Ferraud  to  obtain  from  Mon- 
Bieur  le  Comte  Chabert  the  full  amount,  presuming 
that  she  knew  the  whereabouts  of  her  first  husband. 

The  next  day  Comte  Ferraud's  secretary  sent  the 
following  answer :  — 

Monsieur,  —  I  am  directed  by  Madame  la  Comtesse 
Ferraud  to  inform  you  that  your  client  totally  deceived  you, 
and  that  the  individual  calling  himself  the  Comte  Chabert 
admitted  having  falsely  taken  that  name. 

Receive  the  assurance,  etc.,  etc. 

Delbecq. 

"Well,  some  people  are,  upon  my  honor,  as  devoid 
of  sense  as  the  beasts  of  the  field,  —  they  've  stolen 


184  Colonel   Chahert. 

their  baptism  !  "  cried  Derville.  "  Be  human,  be  gen- 
erous, be  philanthropic,  and  \o\x  '11  find  j'ourself  in  the 
lurch !  Here 's  a  business  that  has  cost  me  over  two 
thousand  francs." 

Not  long  after  the  reception  of  this  letter  Derville 
was  at  the  Palais,  looking  for  a  lawyer  with  whom  he 
wished  to  speak,  and  who  was  in  the  habit  of  practising 
in  the  criminal  courts.  It  so  chanced  that  Derville  en- 
tered the  sixth  court-room  as  the  judge  was  sentencing 
a  vagrant  named  Hj-acinthe  to  two  months'  imprison- 
ment, the  said  vagrant  to  be  conve3'ed  at  the  expiration 
of  the  sentence  to  the  mendicit}'  office  of  the  Saint-Denis 
quarter,  —  a  sentence  which  was  equivalent  to  perpetual 
imprisonment.  The  name,  Hyacinthe,  caught  Derville's 
ear,  and  he  looked  at  the  delinquent  sitting  between  two 
gendarmes  on  the  prisoner's  bench,  and  recognized  at 
once  his  false  Colonel  Chabert.  The  old  soldier  was 
calm,  motionless,  almost  absent-minded.  In  spite  of 
his  rags,  in  spite  of  the  poverty  marked  on  every 
feature  of  the  face,  his  countenance  was  instinct  with 
noble  pride.  His  glance  had  an  expression  of  stoicism 
which  a  magistrate  ought  not  to  have  overlooked  ;  but 
when  a  man  falls  into  the  hands  of  justice,  he  is  no 
longer  anything  but  an  entity,  a  question  of  law  and 
facts  ;   in  the  eyes  of  statisticians,  he  is  a  numeral. 

When  the  soldier  was  taken  from  the  court-room  to 
wait  until  the  whole  batch  of  vagabonds  who  were  then 


Colonel  Chahert.  ISf) 

being  sentenced  were  ready  for  removal,  Dcrvillc  nsetl 
his  privilege  as  a  lawyer  to  follow  him  into  the  room 
adjoining  the  sheritfs  ollice,  where  he  watched  him  for 
a  few  moments,  together  with  the  curious  collection  of 
beggars  who  surrounded  him.  The  ante-chamber  of  a 
sheriffs  olllce  presents  at  such  times  a  sight  which,  un- 
fortunately, neitlier  legislators,  nor  philanthropists,  nor 
painters,  nor  winters,  ever  stud}'.  Like  all  the  labora- 
tories of  tlic  law  this  antechamber  is  dark  and  ill- 
smelling  ;  the  walls  are  protected  by  a  bench,  black- 
ened by  the  incessant  presence  of  the  poor  wretches 
who  come  to  this  central  rendezvous  from  all  quarters 
of  social  wretchedness,  —  not  one  of  which  is  unrepre- 
sented there.  A  poet  would  say  that  the  daylight  was 
ashamed  to  lighten  that  terrible  sink-hole  of  all  miseries. 
There  is  not  one  spot  within  it  where  crime,  planned  or 
committed,  has  not  stood  ;  not  a  spot  where  some  man, 
rendered  desperate  by  the  stigma  which  justice  laj'S 
upon  him  for  his  first  fault,  has  not  begun  a  career 
leading  to  the  scaffold  or  to  suicide.  All  those  who  fall 
in  Paris  rebound  against  these  yellow  walls,  on  which 
a  philanthropist  could  decipher  the  meaning  of  many  a 
suicide  about  which  hypocritical  writers,  incapable  of 
taking  one  step  to  prevent  them,  rail ;  written  on  those 
walls  he  will  find  a  preface  to  the  dramas  of  the  Morgue 
and  those  of  the  place  de  Greve.  Colonel  Cliabort  was 
now  sitting  in  the  midst  of  this  crowd  of  men  with 


186  Colonel  Chdbert. 

nervous  faces,  clothed  in  the  horrible  liveries  of  pov- 
erty, silent  at  times  or  talking  m  a  low  voice,  for  three 
gendarmes  paced  the  room  as  sentries,  their  sabres 
clanging  against  the  floor. 

"Do  30U  recognize  me?"  said  Derville  to  the  old 
soldier. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,"  said  Chabert,  rising. 

*'  If  you  are  an  honest  man,"  continued  Derville,  in 
a  low  voice,  "how  is  it  that  3'ou  have  remained  my 
debtor?" 

The  old  soldier  colored  like  a  young  girl  accused  by 
her  mother  of  a  clandestine  love. 

"Is  it  possible,"  he  cried  in  a  loud  voice,  "that 
Madame  Ferraud  has  not  paid  you?" 

"  Paid  me  !  "  said  Derville,  "  she  wrote  me  you  were 
an  impostor." 

The  colonel  raised  his  ej'es  with  a  majestic  look  of 
horror  and  invocation  as  if  to  appeal  to  heaven  against 
this  new  treachery.  "  Monsieur,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
that  was  calm  though  it  faltered,  "  ask  the  gendarmes  to 
be  so  kind  as  to  let  me  go  into  the  sheriff's  oiSice  ;  I  will 
there  write  you  an  order  which  will  certainly  be  paid." 

Derville  spoke  to  the  corporal,  and  was  allowed  to  take 
his  chent  into  the  office,  where  the  colonel  wrote  a  few 
lines  and  addressed  them  to  the  Comtesse  Ferraud. 

"  Send  that  to  her,"  he  said,  "  and  you  will  be  paid 
for  your  loans  and  all  costs.     Believe  me,  Monsieur,  if 


Colonel   ChaheH.  187 

I  have  not  shown  the  gratitude  I  owe  you  for  your  kind 
acts  it  is  none  the  less  there"  he  said,  laying  his  hand 
upon  his  heart ;  "  yes  it  is  there,  full,  complete.  IJiit 
the  unfortunate  ones  can  do  nothing,  —  they  love, 
that  is  all." 

"  Can  it  be,"  said  Derville,  "  that  j'ou  did  not  stipu- 
late for  an  income  ? " 

"  Don't  speak  of  that,"  said  the  old  man.  "  You  can 
never  know  how  utterly  I  despise  this  external  life  to 
which  the  majority  of  men  cling  so  tenaciously.  I  was 
taken  suddenl}'  with  an  illness,  —  a  disgust  for  humanit}'. 
"When  I  think  that  Napoleon  is  at  Saint-Helena  all 
things  here  below  are  nothing  to  me.  I  can  no  longer 
be  a  soldier,  that  is  my  onl}-  soitow.  Ah,  well,"  he 
added,  with  a  gesture  that  was  full  of  childlike  playful- 
ness, "it  is  better  to  have  luxury  in  our  feelings  than 
in  our  clothes.     I  fear  no  man's  contempt." 

lie  went  back  to  the  bench  and  sat  down.  Der- 
ville went  away.  "When  he  reached  his  office,  he  sent 
Godeschal,  then  advanced  to  be  second  clerk,  to  the 
Comtesse  Ferraud,  who  had  no  sooner  read  the  mis- 
sive he  can-ied  than  she  paid  the  money  owing  to  Comte 
Chabert's  lawyer. 

In  1840,  towards  the  close  of  the  month  of  June, 
Godeschal,  then  a  lawyer  on  his  own  account,  was  on 
his  way  to  Ris,  in  company  with  Der\-ille.     When  they 


188  Colonel  Chabert. 

reached  the  avenue  which  leads  into  the  mail  road  to 
Biceti'e,  they  saw  beneath  an  elm  b}"  the  roadside  one 
of  those  hoary,  broken-down  old  paupers  who  rule  the 
beggars  about  them,  and  live  at  Bicetre  just  as  pauper 
women  live  at  La  Salpetriere.  This  man,  one  of  the 
two  thousand  inmates  of  the  "  Almshouse  for  Old  Age," 
was  sitting  on  a  stone  and  seemed  to  be  giving  all  his 
mind  to  an  operation  well-known  to  the  dwellers  in 
charitable  institutions ;  that  of  drj-ing  the  tobacco  in 
their  handkerchiefs  in  the  sun,  —  possiblj-  to  escape 
washing  them.  The  old  man  had  an  interesting  face. 
He  was  dressed  in  that  gown  of  dark,  reddish  cloth 
which  the  Almshouse  provides  for  its  inmates,  a  dread- 
ful sort  of  livery. 

"Derville,"  said  Godeschal  to  his  companion,  "do 
look  at  that  old  fellow.  Is  n't  he  like  those  grotesque 
figures  that  are  made  in  Germany.  But  I  suppose  he 
lives,  and  perhaps  he  is  happ}' ! " 

Der\'ille  raised  his  glass,  looked  at  the  pauper,  and 
gave  vent  to  an  exclamation  of  surprise  ;  then  he  said  : 
"  That  old  man,  m}'  dear  fellow,  is  a  poem,  or,  as  the 
romanticists  sa}',  a  drama.  Did  you  ever  meet  the 
Comtesse  Ferraud  ?  " 

"Yes,  a  clever  woman  and  very  agreeable,  but  too 
pious." 

"  That  old  man  is  her  legitimate  husband,  Comte 
Chabert,  formerlv  colonel.     No  doubt  she  has  had  him 


Colonel  Chabert.  189 

placed  here.  If  he  lives  in  an  jilinshouse  instead  of  a 
mansion,  it  is  because  he  reminded  the  pretty  countess 
that  he  took  her,  like  a  cab,  from  the  streets.  I  ran 
still  see  the  tigerish  look  she  gave  him  when  liu 
said  it." 

These  words  so  excited  Godeschal's  curiosity  that 
Derville  told  him  the  whole  story.  Two  days  later,  on 
the  following  Monday  morning,  as  they  were  returning 
to  Paris,  the  two  friends  glanced  at  Bicetre,  and  Der- 
ville proposed  that  they  should  go  and  see  Colonel 
Chabert.  Half-way  up  the  avenue  they  found  the  old 
man  sitting  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  and  amusing 
himself  b}'  drawing  lines  on  the  gravel  with  a  stick 
which  he  held  in  his  hand.  "When  they  looked  at  him 
attentively  they  saw  that  he  had  been  breakfasting 
elsewhere  than  at  the  almshouse. 

"  Good-morning,  Colonel  Chabert,"  said  Denillc. 

"  Not  Chabert !  not  Chabert !  my  name  is  llyacinthe," 
answered  the  old  man.  "  1  'm  no  longer  a  man  ;  1  'm 
number  164,  seventh  room,"  he  added,  looking  at 
Derville  with  timid  anxiety,  —  the  fear  of  old  age  or  of 
childhood.  "  You  can  see  the  condemned  prisoner," 
he  said,  after  a  moment's  silence  ;  "  he  's  not  married, 
no  !  he  's  happy  —  " 

"Poor  man!"  said  Godeschal;  "don't  you  want 
some  mono}'  for  tobacco?" 

The  colonel  extended  his  hand  with  all  the  naivete 


190  Colonel  Chahert. 

of  a  street  boy  to  the  two  strangers,  who  each  gave  him 
a  twentj'-franc  gold  piece.  He  thanked  them  both,  with 
a  stupid  look,  and  said,  "Brave  troopers  !  "  Then  he 
pretended  to  shoulder  arms  and  take  aim  at  them, 
calling  out  with  a  laugh,  "  Fire  the  two  pieces,  and 
long  live  Napoleon  ! "  after  which  he  described  an  im- 
aginary arabesque  in  the  air,  with  a  flourish  of  his 
cane. 

"  The  nature  of  his  wound  must  have  made  him 
childish,"  said  Derville. 

"He  childish!"  cried  another  old  pauper  who  was 
watching  them.  "  Ha !  there  are  days  when  it  won't 
do  to  step  on  his  toes.  He  's  a  knowing  one,  full  of 
philosophy  and  imagination.  But  to-da}-,  don't  you 
see,  he  's  been  keeping  Monda}'.  Why,  Monsieur,  he 
was  here  in  1820.  Just  about  that  time  a  Prussian 
officer,  whose  carriage  was  going  over  the  Villejuif  hill, 
walked  by  on  foot  Hyacinthe  and  I  were  sitting  by 
the  roadside.  The  officer  was  talking  with  another,  I 
think  it  was  a  Russian  or  some  animal  of  that  kind, 
and  when  they  saw  the  old  fellow,  the  Prussian,  just 
to  tease  him,  says  he  :  '  Here  's  an  old  voltigeur  who 
must  have  been  at  Rosbach  — '  'I  was  too  3'oung  to 
be  at  Rosbach,'  says  Hyacinthe,  but  I  'm  old  enough 
to  have  been  at  Jena  ! '  Ha,  ha  !  that  Prussian  cleared 
off — and  no  more  questions  —  " 

"  What  a  fate  ! "  cried  Derville  ;  "  born  in  the  Found- 


Colonel  Chahert.  101 

ling,  he  returns  to  die  in  the  asyhim  of  old  aj^o,  having 
in  the  interval  helped  Napoleon  to  conqiUT  Kirypt  and 
Europe  !  —  Do  you  know,  my  dear  fellow,"  continued 
Derville,  after  a  long  pause,  "  that  there  are  three  men 
in  our  social  system  who  cannot  respect  or  value  the 
world,  —  the  priest,  tlie  physician,  and  the  lawyer.  They 
wear  black  gowns,  perhaps  because  they  mourn  for  all 
virtues,  all  illusions.  The  most  unhappy  among  them 
is  the  lawyer.  "When  a  man  seeks  a  priest  he  is  forced 
to  it  b}'  repentance,  b}-  remorse,  b}'  beliefs  which  make 
him  interesting,  which  ennoble  him  and  comfort  the 
soul  of  his  mediator,  whose  duty  is  not  without  a  certain 
sort  of  joy;  the  priest  purifies,  heals»  reconciles.  But 
we  lawyers  !  we  see  forever  the  same  evil  feelings,  never 
coiTccted  ;  our  offices  are  sink-holes  which  nothing  can 
cleanse. 

"How  manj'  things  have  T  not  seen  and  known 
and  learned  in  my  practice  !  1  have  seen  a  father  die 
in  a  garret,  penniless,  abandoned  by  daughters,  to  each 
of  whom  he  had  given  an  income  of  fort^'  thousand 
francs.  I  have  seen  wills  burned.  I  have  seen  mothers 
robbing  their  children,  husbands  stealing  from  their 
wives,  wives  killing  their  husl)ands  by  the  ver}'  love 
the}'  inspired,  so  as  to  live  in  peace  with  their  lovers. 
I  have  seen  women  giving  to  the  children  of  a  first 
marriage  tastes  which  led  them  to  their  death,  so  that 
the  child  of  love  might  be  enriched.     I  could  not  tell 


192  Colonel   Chahert. 

jou  what  I  have  seen,  for  I  have  seen  crimes  against 
which  justice  is  powerless.  All  the  horrors  that  ro- 
mance-writers think  the}"  invent  are  forever  below  the 
truth.  You  are  about  to  make  acquaintance  with  such 
things ;  as  for  me,  I  shall  live  in  the  country  with  my 
wife ;  I  have  a  horror  of  Paris. " 

1832. 


THE   ATHEIST'S  MASS. 


tuis  is  dedicated  to  auguste  borget,  by  his  friend, 

De  Balzac. 


A  PHYSICIAN  to  whom  science  owes  a  masterly  physi- 
ological theory,  and  who,  though  still  young,  has  taken 
his  place  among  the  celebrities  of  the  School  of  Paris, 
that  centre  of  medical  intelligence  to  which  the  phy- 
sicians of  P^urope  pay  just  homage,  Doctor  Horace 
Bianchon  practised  surgeiy  for  some  time  before  he 
devoted  himself  to  medicine.  His  studies  were  directed 
bj"  one  of  the  greatest  of  French  surgeons,  the  illustri- 
ous Desplein,  who  passed  like  a  meteor  through  the 
skies  of  science.  Even  his  enemies  admit  that  he 
carried  with  him  to  the  grave  au  incommunicable 
method.  Like  all  men  of  genius,  he  had  no  heirs  of 
his  facult}' ;  he  held  all  within  him,  and  he  carried  all 
awa}-  with  him. 

The  fame  of  surgeons  is  something  like  that  of 
actors ;  it  lives  during  their  lifetime  onl}',  and  is  not 
fully   appreciable    after   they    are   gone.      Actors    and 

13 


194  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

surgeons,  also  great  singers,  and  all  virtuosi  •who  by 
execution  increase  the  power  of  music  tenfold,  are  the 
heroes  of  a  moment.  Desplein  is  a  proof  of  the  uni- 
versal fate  of  these  transitory  geniuses.  His  name,  so 
celebrated  j-esterda}',  to-day  almost  forgotten,  remains 
within  the  limits  of  his  specialty,  and  will  never  reach 
beyond  them. 

But,  let  us  ask,  must  there  not  exist  some  extraor- 
dinary circumstances  to  bring  the  name  of  a  great 
worker  from  the  domain  of  science  into  the  general 
history  of  humanity?  Had  Desplein  that  universality 
of  knowledge  which  makes  a  man  the  Word  and  the 
Form  of  an  era?  Desplein  possessed  an  almost  divine 
insight ;  he  penetrated  both  patient  and  disease  with 
an  intuition,  natural  or  acquired,  which  enabled  him 
to  seize  the  idiosyncrasies  of  the  individual,  and  so 
determine  the  exact  moment,  to  the  hour  and  the 
minute,  when  it  was  right  to  operate,  —  taking  note  of 
atmospheric  conditions,  and  peculiarities  of  tempera- 
ment. Was  he  guided  in  this  by  that  power  of  deduc- 
tion and  analogy  to  which  is  due  the  genius  of  Cuvier? 
However  that  may  have  been,  this  man  certainly'  made 
himself  the  confidant  of  flesh  ;  he  knew  its  secrets  of  the 
past,  and  of  the  future,  as  he  dealt  with  its  present. 
But  did  he  sum  up  the  whole  of  science  in  his  own 
person,  like  Galen,  Hippocrates,  Aristotle?  Has  he 
led  a  school  to  new  and  unknown  worlds?    No. 


11 


The  Atheist's  Mass.  195 

Though  it  is  impossible  to  dony  to  tliis  porpftual 
obsorver  of  human  chemistry  some  faculty  of  tlie  un- 
dent science  of  magic,  —  tliat  is  to  say,  a  perception  of 
principles  in  fusion,  the  causes  of  life,  the  life  before 
the  life,  and  what  the  life  becomes  through  its  prepa- 
rations before  being,  —  we  must  admit,  speaking  just!}-, 
that  unfortunately  all  with  Dcsplein  was  Self;  he  was 
isolated  in  life  through  egoism,  and  egoism  has  killed 
his  fame.  No  speaking  statue  surmounts  his  tomb,  and 
tells  the  future  of  the  mysteries  that  genius  wrested 
from  her.  But  perhaps  Desplein's  talent  was  one 
with  his  beliefs,  and  therefore  mortal.  To  him,  the 
terrestrial  atmosphere  was  a  generating  ponch  ;  he  saw 
the  earth  like  an  egg  in  its  shell ;  unable  to  discover 
whether  the  egg  or  the  hen  were  the  beginning,  he  de- 
nied both  the  cock  and  the  egg.  He  believed  neither 
in  the  anterior  animal  nor  in  the  posterior  spirit  of  man. 

Desplcin  was  not  a  doubter ;  he  affirmed  his  beliefs. 
His  clear-cut  atheism  was  like  that  of  a  great  many 
men  of  science,  who  are  the  best  people  in  the  world, 
but  invincible  atheists,  atheists  like  those  religious 
folk  who  will  not  admit  that  there  can  be  atheists. 
It  could  not  be  otherwise  with  a  man  accustomed  from 
his  earliest  youth  to  dissect  the  human  being  before, 
during,  and  after  life ;  to  pry  into  all  its  apparatus 
and  never  find  that  soul-germ  so  essential  to  religious 
theories.     Finding  in  the  human  body  a  brain  centre, 


196  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

a  nervous  centre,  a  centre  of  the  blood  circulation  (the 
first  two  of  which  so  complement  each  other  that  during 
the  last  two  days  of  Desplein's  life  he  came  to  a  con- 
viction that  the  sense  of  hearing  was  not  absolutely 
.^  necessary'  in  order  to  hear,  nor  the  sense  of  sight  abso- 
lutelj'  necessary  in  order  to  see,  and  that,  beyond  all 
doubt,  the  solar  plexus  did  replace  them),  —  Desplein, 
we  sa}',  finding  thus  two  souls  in  man,  corroborated  his 
atheism  by  this  very  fact,  though  he  asserted  nothing 
in  relation  to  God.  The  man  died,  the  world  said,  in 
the  impenitence  in  which  so  many  men  of  noblest 
genius  unhappily  leave  this  life,  —  men  whom  it  may, 
perhaps,  please  God  to  pardon. 

The  life  of  this  man  presented,  to  use  the  expression 
of  his  enemies,  who  were  jealous  of  his  fame  and  sought 
to  belittle  it,  many  pettinesses  which  it  is  more  just  to 
call  apparent  contradictions.  Fools  and  detractors, 
having  no  knowledge  of  the  influences  that  act  upon 
superior  minds,  make  the  most  of  superficial  incon- 
sistencies, to  bring  accusations  on  which  the}-  sit  in 
judgment.  If,  later,  success  attends  the  labors  of  a 
man  thus  attacked,  showing  the  correlation  of  prepa- 
rations and  results,  a  few  of  the  past  calumnies  are 
sure  to  remain  fixed  upon  him.  In  our  day  Napoleon 
was  condemned  by  contemporaries  when  his  eagles 
threatened  England  ;  it  needed  1822  to  explain  1804 
and  the  flat-boats  of  Boulogne. 


Till-  Atheist's  Mass.  I'.'T 

Dcsplcin's  fame  and  scioiKv  wore  iiniiliior:il>l<' ;  his 
enemies  tliereforc  fouiiil  fault  witli  liis  odd  lc'iii|icr, 
his  peculiar  character,  —  the  lact  being  that  he  inert.l y 
j)OSsessed  that  quality  which  the  English  call  "eccen- 
tricity." At  times  gorgeous!}'  dressed,  like  the  tragic 
Crcbillon,  he  would  change  snddenl}'  to  a  singular  in- 
ditrerence  in  the  matter  of  clothes  ;  sometimes  he  drove 
in  his  carriage,  sometimes  be  went  about  on  foot.  By 
turns  rough  and  kind,  apparently  crabbed  and  stingy, 
he  was  capable  of  olfering  his  whole  fortune  to  his  ex- 
iled masters,  who  did  him  the  honor  to  accept  it  for  a 
few  da^s ;  no  man  was  therefore  more  liable  to  con- 
tradictory judgments.  Though  capal)lc,  in  order  to 
win  that  black  ribbon  which  physicians  ought  never 
to  have  solicited,  of  dropping  a  prayer-book  from  his 
pocket  in  some  room  at  the  palace,  it  was  more  because 
in  his  heart  he  sneered  at  all  things.  He  had  the  deep- 
est conten)[>t  for  men,  having  examined  them  from  head 
to  foot,  having  detected  their  veritable  being  through  all 
the  acts  of  existence,  the  most  solemn  and  the  most  in- 
significant. In  great  men  great  qualities  often  sui)port 
and  require  each  other.  Though  some  among  these 
Colossi  ma}-  have  more  faculty  than  mind,  their  minds 
are  nevertheless  more  enlightened  than  that  of  others 
of  whom  the  world  says  simply,  "They  are  men  of 
mind."  All  genius  presupposes  a  moral  insight ;  that 
insight  may  be  applied  to  some  specialty,  but  whoso 


198  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

can  see  a  flower  can  see  the  sun.  The  story  is  told  of 
Desplein  that  when  he  heard  a  diplomate,  whose  Ufe  he 
had  saved,  asking  "  How  is  the  Emperor?"  he  replied, 
"The  courtier  returns,  the  man  will  follow,"  —  proving 
that  he  was  not  onlj-  a  great  surgeon  and  a  great  ph}-- 
sician,  but  wonderfully  wise  and  witty.  So  the  patient 
and  assiduous  student  of  humanit}'  will  admit  the  ex- 
orbitant claims  of  Desplein,  and  will  think  him,  as  he 
thought  himself,  fit  to  be  as  gi'eat  a  statesman  as  he 
was  a  surgeon. 

Among  the  enigmas  offered  to  the  e3es  of  contempo- 
raries by  Desplein's  life  we  have  chosen  one  of  the  most 
interesting,  because  of  its  final  word,  which  may,  per- 
haps, vindicate  his  memor}'  from  certain  accusations. 

Of  all  the  pupils  whom  the  great  surgeon  had  taught 
in  his  hospital,  Horace  Bianchon  was  the  one  to  whom 
he  was  most  attached.  Before  becoming  a  house  pupil 
at  the  Hotel-Dieu,  Horace  Bianchon  was  a  medical  stu- 
dent living  in  a  miserable  ])ensio?i  in  the  Latin  quarter, 
known  under  the  name  of  the  Maison  Vauquer.  There 
the  poor  young  fellow  felt  the  assaults  of  bitter  povert}', 
that  species  of  crucible  from  which  great  talents  issue 
pure  and  incorruptible  as  diamonds  which  can  bear  all 
blows  and  never  break.  From  the  strong  fires  of  their 
vehement  passions  such  natures  acquire  an  uncompro- 
mising rectitude  ;  thej-  gain  the  habit  of  those  struggles 
which  are  the  lot  of  genius  through  constant  toil,  in 


The  Atheist's  Mass.  199 

the  (lull  roniul  of  which  the}'  arc  forced  to  keep  their 
balked  appetites. 

Horace  was  an  honorable  young  man,  incapable  of 
paltering  with  his  sense  of  duty  ;  given  to  deeds,  n<^t 
words  ;  read}'  to  pawn  his  cloak  for  a  friend,  or  to  give 
hiiu  his  time  and  his  nights  in  watching.  Horace  was, 
indeed,  one  of  those  friends  who  care  nothing  for  what 
they  receive  in  exchange  for  what  they  give,  sure  of 
finding  a  return  in  their  hearts  far  greater  than  the 
value  of  their  gift.  Most  of  his  friends  felt  that  in- 
ward respect  for  him  which  virtue  without  assumption 
inspires,  and  many  among  them  feared  his  censure. 
Horace  displayed  his  fine  qualities  without  conceit. 
Keither  a  puritan  nor  a  sermonizer,  he  gave  advice 
with  an  oath,  and  was  ready  enough  for  a  "  tron^on 
de  chiere  lie  "  when  occasion  offered.  A  jolly  comrade, 
no  more  prudish  than  a  cuirassier,  frank  and  open,  — 
not  as  a  sailor,  for  sailors  now-a-days  are  wily  diplo- 
mates,  — but  like  a  brave  young  fellow  with  nothing  to 
conceal  in  his  life,  he  walked  the  earth  with  his  head 
up  and  his  thoughts  happy.  To  express  him  in  one 
sentence,  Horace  was  the  Pylades  of  more  than  one 
Orestes,  creditors  being  in  these  days  the  nearest 
approach  to  the  ancient  Furies.  He  carried  his  pov- 
erty with  an  easy  gayety  which  is  perhaps  one  of 
the  greatest  elements  of  courage,  and  like  all  those 
who  have  nothing  he  contracted  few  debts.     Sober  as 


200  The  Atheisfs  Mass. 

a  camel,  agile  as  a  deer,  be  was  firm  in  his  ideas,  and 
in  his  conduct.  Bianchon's  successful  life  may  be 
said  to  have  begun  on  the  day  when  the  illustrious 
surgeon  became  full}''  aware  of  the  virtues  and  the 
defects  which  made  Doctor  Horace  Biauchon  so  doubly 
dear  to  his  friends. 

When  a  clinical  chief  takes  a  young  man  into  his 
rounds  that  young  man  has,  as  they  sa}',  his  foot  in  the 
stirrup.  Desplein  ah^ays  took  Bianchon  with  him  for 
the  sake  of  his  assistance  when  he  went  among  his  opu- 
lent patients,  where  man}-  a  fee  dropped  into  the  pupil's 
pouch,  and  where,  little  by  little,  the  mysteries  of 
Parisian  life  revealed  themselves  to  his  provincial  eyes. 
Desplein  kept  him  in  his  study  during  consultations 
and  employed  him  there  ;  sometimes  he  sent  him  trav- 
elling with  a  rich  patient  to  baths  ;  in  short,  he  provided 
him  with  a  practice.  The  result  was  that,  after  a  time, 
the  autocrat  of  surgerj'  had  an  alter  ego.  These  two 
men  —  one  at  the  summit  of  science  and  of  all  honors, 
enjoying  a  large  fortune  and  a  great  fame  ;  the  other, 
the  modest  omega,  without  either  fame  or  fortune  —  be- 
came intimates.  The  great  Desplein  told  his  pupil  every- 
thing ;  the  pupil  knew  what  woman  had  been  seated  in 
a  chair  beside  the  master,  or  on  the  famous  sofa  which 
was  in  the  study  and  on  which  Desplein  slept ;  Bian- 
chon knew  the  mj-steries  of  that  temperament,  half- 
lion,  half-bull,  which   finally  expanded   and   amplified 


Tlie  Atheist's  Mans.  201 

bc3'oiKl  all  reason  the  great  man's  chest,  and  caused 
his  death  by  enlargement  of  the  heart.  He  studied 
the  eccentricities  of  that  bus}'  life,  the  schemes  of 
that  sordid  avarice,  the  hopes  of  the  politic  man  hid- 
den in  the  scientific  man  ;  he  was  therefore  fitted  to 
detect  the  deceptions,  had  any  existed,  in  the  sole 
sentiment  buried  in  a  heart  that  was  less  hard  than 
hardened. 

One  da}'  Bianchon  told  Desplein  that  a  poor  water- 
carrier  in  the  quartier  Saint-Jacques  had  a  horrible 
disease  caused  by  over-work  and  poverty ;  this  poor 
Auvergnat  had  eaten  nothing  but  potatoes  during  the 
severe  winter  of  1H21.  Desplein  left  all  his  patients 
and  rushed  otf,  followed  by  Bianchon,  and  took  the 
poor  man  himself  to  a  private  hospital  established  b}' 
the  famous  Dubois,  in  the  faubourg  Saint-Denis.  He 
attended  the  man  personally,  and  when  he  recovered 
gave  him  enough  money  to  buy  a  horse  and  a  water- 
cart.  This  Auvergnat  was  remarkable  for  an  original 
act.  One  of  his  friends  fell  ill,  and  he  took  him  at 
once  to  Desplein,  saying  to  his  benefactor,  "  I  would  n't 
hear  of  his  going  to  an}-  one  else."  Gruff  as  he  was, 
Desplein  pressed  the  water-carrier's  hand.  "  Bring 
them  all  to  me,"  he  said  ;  and  he  put  the  friend  in  the 
Hutel-Dieu,  where  he  took  extreme  care  of  him.  Bian- 
chon had  alread}'  noticed  several  times  the  evident 
predilection   his  chief  felt  for  an  Auvergnat,  and  es- 


202  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

pecially  for  a  water-carrier,  but  as  Desplein's  pride  was 
in  the  management  of  his  hospital  cases  the  pupil  saw 
nothing  really  strange  in  the  incident. 

One  day,  crossing  the  place  Saint-Sulpice,  Bianchon 
caught  sight  of  his  master  entering  the  church  about 
nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Desplein,  who  at  that 
time  of  his  life  went  everywhere  in  his  cabriolet,  was 
on  foot,  and  was  slipping  along  b}'  the  rue  du  Petit- 
Lion  as  if  in  quest  of  some  questionable  resort.  Katu- 
rall}'  seized  with  curiosity,  the  pupil,  who  knew  the 
opinions  of  his  master,  slipped  into  Saiut-Sulpice  him- 
self, and  was  not  a  little  amazed  to  see  the  great 
Desplein,  that  atheist  without  pity  even  for  the  angels 
who  so  little  require  a  scalpel  and  cannot  have  stomach- 
aches or  fistulas,  in  short,  that  bold  scoflfer,  humbly 
kneeling  —  where  ?  in  the  chapel  of  the  Virgin,  before 
whom  he  was  hearing  a  mass,  paying  for  the  service, 
giving  money  for  the  poor,  and  as  serious  in  demeanor 
as  if  preparing  for  an  operation. 

"Heavens!"  thought  Bianchon,  whose  amazement 
was  bej'ond  all  bounds.  "  If  I  had  seen  him  holding 
one  of  the  ropes  of  the  canopy  at  the  Fete-Dieu  I 
should  have  known  it  was  all  a  joke  ;  but  here,  at  this 
hour,  alone,  without  witnesses !  Certainly  it  is  some- 
thing to  think  about." 

Not  wishing  to  seem  to  sp}'  upon  the  great  surgeon 
of  the  Hotel-Dieu,  Bianchon  went  away.     It  so  chanced 


The  Atheist's  3Ia88.  203 

that  Dosploiii  asked  him  to  dine  with  him  that  daj', 
awa}'  tVom  home,  at  a  restaurant.  B}'  the  time  the 
dessert  appeared  Bianehon  had  reached  by  clever  stages 
the  topic  of  religious  services,  and  called  the  mass  a 
a  farce  and  a  mummery. 

"A  farce,"  said  Desplcin,  "which  has  cost  Chris- 
tianity more  blood  than  all  the  battles  of  Napoleon  and 
all  the  leeches  of  Broussais.  The  mass  is  a  pai)al 
invention  leased  on  the  Hoc  est  corpus,  aud  dates  back 
to  the  sixth  century  onl}'.  What  torrents  of  blood  had 
to  flow  to  establish  the  Fete-Dieu,  by  the  institution  of 
which  the  court  of  Rome  sought  to  confirm  its  victory 
in  the  matter  of  the  Real  Presence, — a  schism  which 
kept  the  church  in  hot  water  for  three  centuries  !  The 
wars  of  the  Comte  de  Toulouse  and  the  Albigenses  were 
the  sequel  of  it.  The  Vaudois  and  the  Albigenses  both 
refused  to  accept  that  innovation  —  " 

Aud  Desplcin  launched  with  all  an  atheist's  ardor  into 
a  flux  of  Voltairean  sarcasm,  or,  to  be  more  exact,  into 
a  wretched  imitation  of  the  "  Citateur." 

"Whew!"  thought  Bianehon;  "  where 's  the  man 
who  was  on  his  knees  this  morning?" 

He  was  silent,  for  he  began  to  doubt  whether  he  had 
really  seen  his  chief  at  Saint-Sulpice  after  all.  Desplein 
would  surel}'  never  have  troubled  himself  to  deceive 
him.  The}-  knew  each  other  too  well,  had  exchanged 
thoughts  or  questions  fully  as  serious,  aud  discussed 


;   1 


204  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

sj'stems  de  natura  rerum,  probing  them  or  dissecting 
them  with  the  knife  and  scalpel  of  unbelief. 

Six  months  went  by.  Bianchon  took  no  outward 
notice  of  this  circumstance,  though  it  remained  stamped 
in  his  memory.  One  day  a  doctor  belonging  to  the 
Hotel-Dieu  took  Desplein  by  the  ai-m  in  Biauchon's 
presence  as  if  to  question  him,  and  said,  — 

"  Why  did  you  go  to  Saint-Sulpice  to-day,  my  dear 
master?  " 

"  To  see  a  priest  with  caries  of  the  knee  whom 
Madame  la  Duchesse  d'Angouleme  did  me  the  honor 
to  recommend  to  me,"  replied  Desplein. 

The  doctor  was  satisfied,  but  not  so  Bianchon. 

"Ha!  he  went  to  see  a  stiff  knee  in  a  church, 
did  he?"  thought  the  pupil.  "He  went  to  hear  his 
mass." 

Bianchon  resolved  to  watch  Desplein.  He  recollected 
the  day  and  hour  at  which  he  had  seen  him  entering 
Saint-Sulpice,  and  he  determined  to  return  the  next 
year  at  the  same  time  and  see  if  he  should  surprise 
him  in  the  same  place.  If  so,  then  the  periodicity  of 
his  devotion  would  waiTant  scientific  investigation  ;  for 
it  was  impossible  to  expect  in  such  a  man  a  positive 
contradiction  between  thought  and  action. 

The  following  j'ear,  at  the  time  named,  Bianchon, 
who  was  now  no  longer  Desplein's  pupil,  saw  the 
surgeon's  cabriolet  stop  at  the  corner  of  the  rue  de 


TJie  Atheist's  Mass.  205 

Tournon  and  the  rue  du  Petit-Lion,  from  which  point 
his  friend  slipped  jesuitically  along  the  wall  of  the 
chnrch,  where  he  again  entered  and  heard  mass  be- 
fore tlie  altar  of  the  Virgin.  Yes,  it  assuredh-  was 
Desplein,  the  surgeon-in-chief,  the  atheist  in  petto,  the 
pietist  by  chance.  The  plot  thickened.  The  persist- 
ency of  the  illustrious  surgeon  added  a  complication. 

When  Desplein  had  left  the  ciuircli,  I'.iancliou  went 
up  to  the  verger,  who  was  rearranging  the  altar,  and 
asked  hira  if  that  gentleman  were  in  the  habit  of 
coming  there. 

"It  is  twenty  3"ears  since  I  came  here,"  said  the 
verger,  "  and  ever  since  then  Monsieur  Desplein  comes 
four  times  a  year  to  hear  this  mass.     He  founded  it." 

"A  mass  founded  by  him!"  thought  Biiinchon  as 
he  walked  away.  "It  is  a  greater  mystery  than  the 
Immaculate  Conception,  —  a  thing,  iu  itself,  which  would 
make  any  doctor  an  unbeliever." 

Some  time  went  by  before  Doctor  Bianchon,  though 
Desplein's  friend,  was  in  a  position  to  speak  to  him  of 
this  singularity  of  his  life.  "When  the}'  met  in  consul- 
tation or  in  society  it  was  difTicult  to  find  that  moment 
of  confidence  and  solitude  in  which  they  could  sit  witli 
their  feet  on  the  andirons,  and  their  heads  on  the  back 
of  their  chairs,  and  tell  their  secrets  as  two  men  do  at 
such  times.  At  last,  however,  after  the  revolution  of 
1830,  when  the   populace   attacked   the   Archbishop's 


206  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

palace,  when  republican  Instigations  drove  the  crowd 
to  destro}^  the  gilded  crosses  which  gleamed  like  flashes 
of  lightning  among  the  manj'  roofs  of  that  ocean  of 
houses,  when  unbelief,  keeping  pace  with  the  riot, 
strutted  openly  in  the  streets,  Bianchon  again  saw 
Desplein  entering  Saint-Sulpice.  He  followed  him  and 
knelt  beside  him,  but  his  friend  made  no  sign  and 
showed  not  the  least  surprise.  Together  the}^  heard 
the  mass. 

"Will  jou  tell  me,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Bianchon, 
when  thej^  had  left  the  church,  ' '  the  reason  for  this 
pious  performance?  This  is  the  third  time  I  have 
caught  you  going  to  mass,  j'ou !  You  must  tell  me 
what  this  mj'stery  means,  and  explain  the  discrepancy 
between  3'our  opinions  and  3'our  conduct.  You  don't 
believe,  but  you  go  to  mass !  My  dear  master,  I  hold 
you  bound  to  answer  me." 

"I  am  like  a  great  man}'  pious  people,  — men  who 
are  deeply  religious  to  all  appearance,  but  who  are 
reall}^  as  much  atheists  at  heart  as  j-ou  or  I  —  " 

And  he  went  on  with  a  torrent  of  sarcasms  on  certain 
political  personages,  the  best  known  of  whom  presents 
to  this  century  a  new  and  living  edition  of  the  Tartufe 
of  Moliere. 

"I  am  not  talking  to  you  about  that,"  said  Bianchon  ; 
"  I  want  to  know  the  reason  for  what  3'ou  have  just 
done;  and  why  you  founded  that  mass?" 


The  Atheist's  Mass.  207 

"Ah,  well!  my  dear  friend,"  replied  Desploin,  "I 
am  on  the  verge  of  my  grave,  and  I  can  alForil  to  toll 
yon  the  events  of  my  early  life." 

Jnst  then  Bianchon  and  the  great  surgeon  were  pass- 
ing through  the  rue  des  Quatre- Vents,  one  of  the  most 
horrible  streets  in  Paris.  Desplcin  pointed  to  the  sixth 
story  of  a  house  that  looked  like  an  obelisk,  tlie  gate  of 
which  opened  upon  a  passage-way  at  the  end  of  which 
was  a  winding  stair  lighted  by  holes  in  the  planked  side 
of  it.  It  was  a  greenish-looking  house,  occupied  on  the 
gi'ound-tloor  b}'  a  furniture-dealer,  and  seeming  to 
harlx)r  on  each  stor}'  some  different  form  of  poverty. 
Desplein  threw  up  his  arm  with  an  energetic  action 
and  said  to  Bianchon,  "  I  once  lived  up  there  for  two 
years." 

"I  know  the  house;  d'Arthez  lived  in  it.  I  went 
there  nearl}'  every  day  in  my  early  youth ;  we  Ui^ed  to 
call  it  the  '  harbor  of  great  men.'     ■Well,  what  next?" 

"The  mass  I  have  just  heard  is  connected  with  events 
which  happened  when  I  lived  in  the  garret  where  you 
say  d'Arthez  lived,  —  that  one,  where  )-ou  see  the 
clothes-line  and  the  linen  above  the  flower-pots.  My 
beginnings  were  so  hard,  my  dear  Bianchon,  tliat  I 
can  bear  away  the  palm  of  Parisian  sufferings  from 
every  one,  no  matter  who.  I  have  endured  all,  —  hun- 
ger, thirst,  the  want  of  a  penny,  of  linen,  boots,  all, 
even  the  worst  that  poverty  can  bring.     1  have  blown 


208  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

upon  my  frozen  fingers  in  that  harbor  of  great  men, 
which  I  should  like  now  to  see  again  with  you.  I  have 
worked  there  a  whole  winter  and  seen  the  vapor  issu- 
ing from  my  head  just  as  you  see  horses  smoking  in 
frosty  weather. 

"  I  don't  know  where  a  man  can  take  his  stand  and 
find  support  against  a  life  like  that.  I  was  alone,  with- 
out help,  without  a  sou  to  bu}-  books,  or  to  pay  the 
costs  of  my  medical  education ;  having  no  friend  to 
understand  me,  my  irascible  temper,  uneasy  and 
touch}'  as  it  is,  did  me  harm.  No  one  saw  in  my  irri- 
table wa3's  the  evidence  of  the  anxietj'  and  toil  of  a 
man  who  from  the  lowest  social  state  is  struggling  to 
reach  the  surface.  But  I  had,  —  and  this  I  can  say  to 
you  before  whom  there  is  no  need  that  I  should  drape 
mj'self,  —  I  had  that  understratum  of  right  feelings  and 
keen  sensibility'  which  will  alwa3-s  be  the  attribute  of 
men  who  are  strong  enough  to  mount  a  height,  no 
matter  what  it  is,  after  paddling  long  in  the  swamps 
of  misery.  I  could  ask  nothing  of  m}'  famih,  nor  of 
my  native  town,  beyond  the  insufficient  allowance  that 
they  made  me. 

"  Well,  at  this  time  of  my  life,  I  made  my  breakfast 
of  a  roll  sold  to  me  b}-  the  baker  of  the  rue  du  Petit- 
Lion  at  half-price,  because  it  was  a  day  or  two  da}  s 
old,  and  I  crumbled  it  into  some  milk.  So  my  morning 
repast  cost  me  exactly  two  sous.     I  dined,  ever}-  other 


The  Atheiat'n  Muss.  209 

day  only,  in  a  pension  where  the  dinner  cost  sixteca 
sous.  Tims  I  spent  no  more  tlmn  ten  sous  a  day. 
You  l<no\v  as  well  as  I  do  wliat  cure  I  liad  to  tal\e  of 
my  clotlies  and  ni}'  boots  !  I  really  can  t  tell  wlictlicr 
we  suffer  more  in  after  years  from  the  treachery  of  a 
tried  friend  than  you  and  I  have  suffered  from  the 
smiling  grin  of  a  crack  in  our  l)oot-s,  or  the  throadl)are 
look  of  a  coat-sleeve.  I  drank  nothing  but  water,  and 
I  held  the  cafes  in  reverence.  Zt)[)i)i  seemed  to  me  the 
promised  land,  where  the  LucuUusesof  the  Latin  quarter 
alone  had  the  right  of  entrance.  '  Shall  I  ever,'  I 
used  to  say  to  myself,  '  drink  a  cup  of  codec  there, 
with  cream,  and  play  a  game  of  dominoes?  ' 

"  So  I  let  loose  upon  my  work  the  rage  mv  misery 
caused  me.  I  tried  to  possess  myself  of  positive  knowl- 
edge, so  as  to  have  a  vast  personal  value,  and  thus  de- 
serve distinction  when  the  day  came  that  I  should  issue 
from  my  nothingness.  I  consumed  more  oil  than  bread  ; 
the  lamp  which  lighted  me  during  those  toilsome  nights 
cost  me  more  than  all  m}'  food.  The  struggle  was  long, 
obstinate,  and  without  alleviation.  I  awakened  no  sym- 
pathy in  any  one  about  me.  To  have  friends  we  must 
be  friendly  with  young  men,  we  must  have  a  few  sous 
to  tipple  with,  we  must  frequent  the  places  where  other 
students  go ;  but  I  had  nothing !  Who  is  there  in 
Paris  who  realizes  that  nothing  is  iiothimj .^  When  I 
was  forced  at  times  to  reveal  my  poverty  my  throat 
14 


210  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

contracted  just  as  it  does  with  our  patients,  wbo  then 
imagine  that  a  ball  is  rolling  up  from  the  oesophagus  to 
the  larynx.  In  later  years  1  have  met  these  people, 
horn  rich,  who,  never  having  wanted  for  anything,  knew 
nothing  of  the  problem  of  this  rule  of  three  :  A  j^oung 
man  is  to  crime  what  a  five-franc  piece  is  to  x.  These 
gilded  imbeciles  would  say  to  me :  '  But  why  do  you 
run  in  debt  ?  why  do  you  saddle  yourself  with  obliga- 
tions?' They  remind  me  of  the  princess  who,  when 
she  heard  the  people  were  dying  for  want  of  bread, 
remarked :  '  Wh}'  don't  they  buy  cake  ? ' 

"Well,  well,  I  should  like  to  see  one  of  those  rich 
fellows  who  complain  that  I  charge  them  too  dear  for 
m}^  operations,  —  yes,  I  should  like  to  see  one  of  them 
alone  in  Paris,  without  a  penny  to  bless  himself  with, 
without  a  friend,  without  credit,  and  forced  to  work 
with  his  five  fingers  to  get  food.  What  would  he  do  ? 
where  would  he  go  to  appease  his  hunger  ?  —  Bianchon, 
if  you  have  sometimes  seen  me  hard  and  bitter,  it  was 
when  I  was  setting  my  early  sufferings  against  the  un- 
feeling selfishness  of  which  I  have  had  ten  thousand 
proofs  in  the  upper  ranks  of  life  ;  or  else  I  was  thinking 
of  the  obstacles  which  hatred,  envy,  jealousy,  and  cal- 
umny had  raised  between  success  and  me.  In  Paris, 
when  certain  persons  see  3'ou  about  to  put  j^our  foot  in 
the  stirrup  some  of  them  will  catch  you  by  the  tails  of 
your  coat,  others  will  loosen  the  buckles  of  the  belly- 


The  Atheist's  Mass.  211 

band  to  give  yon  a  fall  which  will  crack  your  skull ; 
that  one  will  pull  the  nails  out  of  the  horses'  shoes,  that 
other  will  steal  your  whip  ;  the  least  treacherous  is  he 
whom  you  see  approaching  with  a  pistol  to  blow  out 
your  brains. 

"  Ah  !  uiN*  dear  lad,  you  have  talent  enough  to  be  sqon 
plunged  into  the  horrible  strife,  the  incessant  warfare 
which  mediocrity  wages  against  superior  men.  If  you 
lose  twenty-five  louis  some  evening  the  next  day  you 
are  accused  of  being  a  gambler,  and  your  best  friends 
will  spread  the  news  that  you  have  lost  twenty-five 
thousand  francs.  Have  a  headache,  and  they  '11  say 
you  are  insane.  Get  angrv,  and  they  '11  call  you  a 
Timon.  If,  for  the  purpose  of  resisting  this  battalion 
of  pygmies,  you  call  up  within  you  all  the  powers  you 
possess,  your  best  friends  will  cry  out  that  you  want  to 
destroy  everything,  that  you  want  to  rule,  to  tyrannize. 
In  short,  your  fine  qualities  are  called  defects,  your 
defects  ^nces.  and  your  vices  crimes.  Though  you  may 
save  a  patient  you  will  have  the  credit  of  killing  him  ; 
if  he  recovers,  you  have  sacrificed  his  future  life  to  the 
present ;  if  he  does  n't  die,  he  soon  will.  Slip,  and  3-ou 
are  down  !  Make  an  invention,  claim  3'our  right  to  it, 
and  you  are  a  quarrelsome  knave,  a  sting)'  man,  who 
won't  let  the  young  ones  have  a  chance. 

"  And  so,  my  dear  fellow,  if  I  don't  believe  in  God, 
still  less  do  I  believe  in  man.     Don't  you  know  that 


212  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

there  is  in  me  a  Desplein  who  is  totall}'  different  from 
the  Desi)lein  whom  the  world  traduces?  But  don't  let 
us  drag  that  muddy  pond. 

"  Well,  to  go  back,  I  lived  in  that  house,  and  I  was 
working  to  pass  my  first  examination  and  I  had  n't  a 
brass  farthing.  You  know  !  —  I  had  reached  that  last 
extremit}^  where  a  man  says,  'I'll  pawn!'  I  had 
one  hope.  I  expected  a  trunk  of  underclotliing  from 
my  home,  a  present  from  some  old  aunts,  who,  knowing 
nothing  of  Paris,  think  about  your  shirts,  and  imagine 
that  with  an  allowance  of  thirty  francs  a  month  their 
nephew  must  be  living  on  ortolans.  The  trunk  arrived 
one  day  when  I  was  at  the  hospital ;  the  carriage  cost 
forty  francs  !  The  porter,  a  German  shoemaker  who 
lived  in  the  loft,  paid  the  money  and  kept  the  trunk. 
I  walked  about  the  rue  des  Fosses-Saiut-Germain-des 
Pres  and  the  rue  de  L'Ecole-de-Medecine  without  being 
able  to  invent  an}'  stratagem  by  which  I  could  get 
possession  of  that  trunk  without  pa3ing  the  forty 
francs,  which  I  could,  of  course,  pay  at  once  as  soon 
as  I  had  sold  the  underclothes.  My  stupidity  was 
enough  to  prove  that  I  had  no  other  vocation  than  that 
of  surgery.  My  dear  Bianchon,  sensitive  souls  whose 
forces  work  in  the  higher  spheres  of  thought,  lack  the 
spirit  of  intrigue  which  is  so  fertile  in  resources  and 
schemes ;  their  good  genius  is  chance,  —  thej'  don't  seek, 
they  find. 


The  Athene 9  Mass.  213 

"  Tli.it  iiiijht  I  pntored  the  house  just  as  my  iHMj^h- 
bor,  a  wuUT-c-arrier  naiiiod  IJoiirj^cat,  from  S:iiiit-KI<jiir, 
came  home.  We  knew  each  other  as  two  tenants  must 
when  their  rooms  are  on  the  same  landing,  and  they 
hiar  one  another  snore,  and  cou^h,  and  dress,  and 
at  iengtii  become  accustomed  to  one  another.  ^M}' 
neighbor  told  me  that  the  proprietor  of  the  house,  to 
whom  I  owed  three  months  rent,  had  tunicd  me  out ; 
I  was  warned  to  quit  the  next  day.  He  himself  was 
also  told  to  leave  on  account  of  his  occupation.  I 
passed  the  most  dreadful  night  of  my  life.  How  could 
I  hire  a  porter  to  carry  away  m}'  few  poor  things,  m}' 
books?  how  could  I  pay  him?  where  could  I  go? 
These  insoluble  questions  I  said  over  and  over  to 
myself  in  tears,  just  as  madmen  repeat  their  sing- 
song. I  fell  asleep.  Ah  !  poverty  alone  has  the  divine 
slumber  full  of  glorious  dreams  1 

"  The  next  morning,  as  I  was  eating  my  bowlful  of 
bread  and  milk,  Bourgeat  came  in,  and  said  in  his 
patois,  '  Monsieur,  I  'm  a  poor  man,  a  foundling  from 
the  hospital  at  Saint-Flour,  without  father  or  mother, 
and  I  'm  not  rich  enough  to  marry.  You  are  no  bet- 
ter off  for  friends,  and  relations,  and  money,  as  I 
judge.  Now  listen ;  there  is  a  hand-cart  out  there 
which  I  have  hired  for  two  sous  an  hour ;  it  will  hold 
all  our  things ;  if  you  like,  we  can  go  and  find  some 
cheap  lodging  which  will  hold  us  both,  as  we  are  both 


214  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

turned  out  of  here.  After  all,  you  know,  it  is  n't  a 
terrestrial  paradise.'  '  I  know  that,'  I  said,  '  m}-  good 
Bourgeat,  but  1  am  in  a  great  quandary  ;  I  have  a 
trunk  downstairs  which  contains  at  least  three  hun- 
dred francs'  worth  of  linen,  with  which  I  could  pay 
the  proprietor  if  I  could  only  get  it  from  the  porter,  to 
whom  I  owe  forty  francs  for  the  carriage.'  '  Bah  ! '  he 
cried,  cheerily,  '  I  've  got  a  few  pennies  tucked  away  ; ' 
and  he  pulled  out  a  dirty  old  leather  purse.  '  Keep  your 
linen  ;  you  '11  want  it.' 

"  Bourgeat  paid  my  three  months'  rent,  and  his  own, 
and  the  porter.  He  put  all  our  things  and  the  trunk 
into  his  hand-cart,  and  dragged  it  through  the  streets, 
stopping  before  each  house  where  a  sign  was  up.  Then 
I  went  in  to  see  if  the  place  would  suit  us.  At  mid- 
da}'  we  were  still  wandering  round  the  Latin  quarter 
without  having  found  what  we  wanted.  The  price  was 
the  great  obstacle.  Bourgeat  invited  me  to  breakfast 
in  a  wine-shop,  leaving  the  hand-cart  before  the  door. 
Towards  evening,  I  found  in  the  Cour  de  Rohan,  pas- 
sage du  Commerce,  on  the  top-floor  of  a  house,  under 
the  roof,  two  rooms,  separated  by  the  staircase.  For  a 
yearly  rent  of  sixty  francs  each,  we  were  able  to  take 
them.  So  there  we  were,  housed,  my  humble  friend  and 
I.  We  dined  together.  Bourgeat,  who  earned  about 
fift}'  sous  a  day,  possessed  something  like  three  hun- 
dred francs.     He  was  close  upon  realizing  his  great 


The  AtheiHt's  Matm.  215 

ambition,  which  was  to  buy  a  horse  and  a  watcr-curt. 
Learning  my  situation,  for  ho  wormed  my  sccrctH  out 
of  me,  with  a  depth  of  cunning  and  an  air  of  good- 
fellowship  the  remembrance  of  which  to  this  day  stirs 
every  fibre  of  my  heart,  he  renounced,  for  a  time,  the 
ambition  of  his  life.  Rourgeat  never  attained  it;  ho 
sacriticcd  his  three  hundred  francs  to  my  future." 

Desplein  clasped  the  arm  he  held,  violently. 

"  He  gave  me  the  money  I  needed  for  my  examina- 
tions. That  man  —  my  friend  —  felt  that  I  had  a  mis- 
sion ;  that  the  needs  of  my  intellect  were  greater  than 
his  own.  He  busied  himself  with  me  ;  he  called  me  his 
son  ;  he  lent  me  the  money  I  needed  to  buy  books  ;  he 
came  in  sometimes,  very  softly,  to  watch  me  at  work  ; 
he  substituted,  with  the  forethought  of  a  mother,  a 
nourishing  and  sutllcient  diet  for  the  poor  fare  to  which 
I  had  been  so  long  condemned.  Bourgeat,  a  man  then 
about  forty  years  of  age,  had  a  middle-aged  burgher 
face,  a  prominent  forehead,  and  a  head  which  a  painter 
might  have  chosen  for  a  model  for  Lycurgus.  The  poor 
soul  had  a  licart  full  of  unplaced  affection.  He  had 
never  been  loved  except  by  a  dog  which  had  reccntl}' 
died,  and  of  which  he  often  spoke  to  me,  asking  whether 
I  thought  the  Church  would  be  willing  to  say  masses 
for  the  repose  of  its  soul.  That  dog,  he  said,  was  a 
true  Christian,  who  for  twelve  )ears  had  gone  with 
him  to  church  and  never  barked,  Ustening  to  the  organ 


216  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

without  opening  his  jaws,  and  crouching  by  him  when 
he  Ivnelt  as  if  he  prayed  also. 

"That  man,  that  Auvergne  water-carrier,  spent  all 
his  affection  upon  me.  He  accepted  me  as  a  lonelj^ 
suffering  human  being ;  he  became  my  mother,  my  deli- 
cate benefactor  ;  in  short,  the  ideal  of  that  virtue  which 
delights  in  its  own  work.  When  I  met  him  about  his 
business  in  the  street  he  flung  me  a  glance  of  inconceiv- 
able generosity ;  he  pretended  to  walk  as  if  he  carried 
nothing ;  he  showed  his  happiness  in  seeing  me  in  good 
health  and  well-clothed.  His  devotion  to  me  was  that 
of  the  people, — the  love  of  a  grisette  for  one  above 
her.  Boui'geat  did  my  errands,  woke  me  at  night  when 
I  had  to  be  called,  cleaned  my  lamp,  polished  m}'  floor ; 
as  good  a  servant  as  a  kind  father,  and  as  clean  as 
an  English  girl.  He  kept  house.  Like  Philopoemen, 
he  sawed  our  wood,  and  gave  to  all  his  actions  the 
simple  dignity  of  toil ;  for  he  seemed  to  comprehend 
that  the  object  ennobled  all. 

"  When  I  left  that  noble  man  to  enter  the  Hotel- 
Dieu  as  an  indoor  pupil,  he  suffered  dark  distress  fi'om 
the  thought  that  he  could  no  longer  live  with  me  ;  but 
he  consoled  himself  with  the  idea  of  laying  by  the 
money  required  for  the  expenses  of  my  thesis,  and  he 
made  me  promise  to  come  and  see  him  on  all  mj-  days 
out.  If  you  will  look  up  my  thesis  you  will  find  that 
it  is  dedicated  to  him. 


The  Atheist's  Mass.  217 

"  During  the  last  year  I  was  in  hospital  I  oarncMl 
money  enough  to  return  all  I  owed  to  that  noble  Auvt-r- 
gnat,  with  which  I  bought  him  his  horse  and  water-cart, 
lie  was  very  angry  when  he  Ibuntl  out  I  had  deprived 
myself  of  my  earnings,  and  ^et  delighted  to  see  his 
desires  realized ;  he  laughed  and  scolded,  looked  at  his 
cart  and  at  liis  horse,  and  wiped  his  eyes,  saying  to  me  : 
'  It  is  all  wrong.  Oh,  what  a  line  cart !  You  hud  no 
right  to  do  it ;  that  horse  is  as  strong  as  an  Auvergnat* 
Never  did  I  see  anything  as  touching  as  that  scene. 
Bourgcat  positively  insisted  on  buying  me  that  case  of 
instruments  mounted  in  silver  which  you  have  seen  in 
my  study,  and  which  is  to  me  the  most  precious  of  my 
possessions.  Though  absolutely  intoxicated  b}-  my 
success,  he  never  by  word  or  gesture  let  the  thought 
escape  him,  '  It  is  to  mc  that  he  owes  it.'  And  yet, 
without  hiui,  misery  wouUl  have  killed  rae. 

"  The  poor  man  had  wrecked  himself  for  me  ;  all  he 
ate  was  a  little  bread  rubbed  with  garlic,  that  I  might 
have  coffee  for  my  studious  nights.  He  fell  ill.  You 
can  well  believe  that  I  spent  nights  at  his  bedside.  I 
pulled  him  through  the  first  time,  but  he  liad  a  relapse 
two  years  later,  and,  in  spite  of  all  my  care,  he  died. 
No  king  was  ever  cared  for  as  he  was.  Y'es,  Bianchon, 
to  save  that  life  I  tried  amazing  things.  I  longed  to 
make  him  live  as  the  witness  of  his  own  work  ;  to 
realize  his  hopes,  to  satisfy  the  sole  gratitude  that  ever 


218  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

entered  my  heart,  to  extinguish  a  fire  which  burns  there 
still. 

"  Bourgeat,"  resumed  Despleiu,  with  visible  emotion, 
"  m}'  second  father,  died  in  my  arms,  leaving  all  he  pos- 
sessed to  me,  in  a  will  drawn  up  by  a  street  writer  and 
dated  the  year  we  went  to  live  in  the  Cour  de  Rohan. 
That  man  had  the  faith  of  his  kind ;  he  loved  the 
Blessed  Virgin  as  he  would  have  loved  his  wife.  An 
ardent  Catholic,  he  never  said  one  word  to  me  about  my 
irreligion.  When  he  was  in  danger  of  death  he  asked 
me  to  spare  nothing  that  he  might  have  the  succor  of  the 
Church.  Ever}'  day  masses  were  said  for  him.  Often 
during  the  night  he  would  tell  me  of  his  fears  for  the 
future ;  he  thought  he  had  not  lived  devoutly  enough. 
Poor  man  !  he  had  toiled  from  morning  till  night.  To 
whom  else  does  heaven  belong,  —  if  indeed  there  is  a 
heaven?  He  received  the  last  offices  of  religion,  like 
the  saint  that  he  was,  and  his  death  was  worth}-  of  his 
life.  I,  alone,  followed  him  to  the  grave.  When  the 
earth  covered  m}'  sole  benefactor  I  sought  a  way  to 
pay  my  debt  to  him.  He  had  neither  family,  nor 
friends,  nor  wife,  nor  children,  but,  he  believed !  he 
had  a  deep  religious  belief;  what  right  had  I  to  dispute 
it?  He  had  timidly  spoken  to  me  of  masses  for  the 
repose  of  the  dead,  but  he  never  imposed  that  duty 
upon  me,  thinking,  no  doubt,  it  would  seem  like  pay- 
ment for   his  services.      The  moment   I  was  able   to 


The  Atheist's  Mass.  219 

found  a  mass  I  gave  Saint-Sulpicc  the  necessary  siun 
for  four  yearl}*  ser^•ice8.  As  the  sole  thing  I  can  olFcr 
to  Bourgeat  is  the  satisfaction  of  his  pious  wishes,  I 
go  in  his  name  and  recite  tor  him  the  appoiuteil  prayers 
at  the  beginning  of  each  season.  I  say  with  tlie  sin- 
cerity of  a  doubter :  '  My  God,  if  there  be  a  spliere 
where  thou  dost  place  after  death  the  souls  of  the 
perfect,  think  of  the  good  Bourgeat ;  and  if  there  is 
anything  to  be  suffered  for  him,  grant  me  those  suffer- 
ings that  he  may  the  sooner  enter  what,  they  say,  is 
heaven.' 

"  That,  m}'  dear  friend,  is  all  a  man  of  my  opinions 
can  do.  God  must  be  a  good  sort  of  devil,  and  he  '11 
not  blame  me.  I  swear  to  you  I  would  give  all  I  am 
worth  if  Bourgeat's  belief  could  enter  my  brain." 

Bianchon,  who  took  care  of  Desplein  in  his  last 
illness,  dares  not  affirm  that  the  great  surgeon  died  an 
atheist.  Believers  will  like  to  think  that  the  humble 
water-carrier  opened  to  him  the  gates  of  heaven,  as  he 
had  once  opened  to  him  the  portals  of  that  terrestial 
temple  on  the  pediment  of  which  are  inscribed  the 
words :  — 

"  To  HER  Great  Men,  a  grateful  Country  ! " 

1836. 


LA  GKANDE  BREXtClIE. 


"  An  !  Madame,"  replied  Doctor  Horace  Bianchon 
to  the  lady  at  whose  house  he  was  supping,  "it  is 
true  that  I  have  many  terrible  histories  in  my  reper- 
tory ;  but  every  tale  has  its  due  hour  in  a  conversa- 
tion, according  to  the  clever  saying  reported  by 
Chanifort  and  said  to  the  Duo  de  Fronsac :  ''There 
are  ten  bottles  of  champagne  between  your  joke  and 
the  present  moment." 

"But  it  is  past  midnight;  what  better  hour  could 
you  have?"  said  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

"Yes,  tell  us,  Monsieur  BiancTion,"  urged  the  as- 
sembled company. 

At  a  gesture  from  the  complying  doctor,  silence 
reigned. 

"  About  a  hundred  yards  from  VendOrae,"  he  said, 
"  on  the  banks  of  the  Loir,  is  an  old  brown  house, 
covered  with  ver}'  steep  roofs,  and  so  completely 
isolated  that  there  is  not  so  much  as  an  evil-sraelling 
tannery,  nor  a  shabb}'  inn  such  as  jou  see  at  the  en- 
trance  of  all   little   towns,    in   its   neighborhood.     In 


222  La  Grande  Breteche. 

front  of  this  dwelling  is  a  garden  overlooking  the 
river,  where  the  box  edgings,  once  carefully  clipped, 
which  bordered  the  paths,  now  cross  them  and  straggle 
as  they  fancy.  A  few  willows  with  their  roots  in  the 
Loir  have  made  a  rapid  growth,  like  the  enclosing 
hedge,  and  together  they  half  hide  the  house.  Plants 
which  we  call  weeds  drape  the  bank  towards  the  river 
with  their  beautiful  vegetation.  Fruit-trees,  neglected 
for  half  a  score  of  years,  no  longer  yield  a  product,  and 
their  shoots  and  suckers  have  formed  an  undergrowth. 
The  espaliers  are  like  a  hornbeam  hedge.  The  paths, 
formerly  gravelled,  are  full  of  purslain  ;  so  that,  strictly 
speaking,  there  are  no  paths  at  all. 

"From  the  crest  of  the  mountain,  on  which  hang 
the  ruins  of  the  old  castle  of  Vendome  (the  only  spot 
whence  the  eye  can  look  down  into  this  enclosure)  we 
say  to  ourselves  that  at  an  earlier  period,  now  difficult 
to  determine,  this  corner  of  the  earth  was  the  delight 
of  some  gentleman  devoted  to  roses  and  tuUps,  in  a 
word,  to  horticulture,  but  above  all  possessing  a  keen 
taste  for  good  fruits.  An  arbor  is  still  standing,  or 
rather  the  remains  of  one,  and  beneath  it  is  a  table 
which  time  has  not  yat  completel}^  demolished. 

"From  the  aspect  of  this  garden,  now  no  more,  the 
negative  joj's  of  the  peaceful  life  of  the  provinces  can 
be  inferred,  just  as  we  infer  the  life  of  some  worthy 
from  the  epitaph  on  his  tomb.     To  complete  the  sad 


La    Orande   lircteche.  228 

and  tender  ideas  which  t;ike  possession  of  the  soul,  a 
sundial  on  tlie  wall  lu-ars  this  inscription,  CMnistiun  yet 
bourgeois,  '  L'ltijiam  Cochta.'  The  roofs  are  dilapi- 
dated, the  blinds  always  closed,  the  balconies  are  filled 
with  swallows*  nests,  the  gates  are  locked.  Tall  herbs 
and  grasses  trace  in  green  lines  the  chinks  and  crevices 
of  the  stone  portico ;  the  locks  are  rusty.  Sun  and 
moon,  summer  and  winter  and  snow  liave  rotted  the 
wood,  warped  the  planks,  and  worn  away  the  i)aint. 
The  gloomy  silence  is  unbroken  save  by  the  birds,  the 
cats,  the  martens,  the  rats,  the  mice,  all  free  to  scamper 
or  fly,  and  to  fight,  and  to  eat  themselves  up. 

"  An  invisible  hand  has  written  the  word  '  INIvstery* 
everywhere.  If,  impelled  by  curiosity,  you  wish  to 
look  at  this  house,  on  the  side  towards  the  road  you 
will  see  a  large  gate  with  an  arched  top,  in  which  the 
children  of  the  neighborhood  have  made  large  holes. 
This  gate,  as  I  heard  later,  had  been  disused  for  ten 
years.  Through  these  irregular  holes  you  can  observe 
the  perfect  harmon}'  which  exists  between  the  garden 
side,  and  the  courtyard  side  of  the  premises.  The 
same  neglect  everj-where.  Lines  of  grass  surround 
the  paving-stones.  Enormous  cracks  furrow  the  walls, 
the  blackened  caves  of  which  are  festooned  with  pelli- 
tory.  The  steps  of  the  portico  are  disjointed,  the  n^pc 
of  the  bell  is  rotten,  the  gutters  are  dropping  apart. 
What  fire  from  heaven  has  fallen  here?     What  tribunal 


224  La   Grande  Breteche. 

has  ordained  that  salt  be  cast  upon  this  dwelling?  Has 
God  been  mocked  here ;  or  France  betraj'ed  ?  These 
are  the  questions  we  ask  as  we  stand  there  ;  the  rep- 
tiles crawl  about  but  they  give  no  answer. 

"  This  empty  and  deserted  house  is  a  profound 
enigma,  whose  solution  is  known  to  none.  It  was 
formerly  a  small  fief,  and  is  called  La  Grande  Breteche. 
During  my  sta}^  at  Vendome,  where  Desplein  had  sent 
me  in  charge  of  a  rich  patient,  the  sight  of  this  strange 
dwelling  was  one  of  va.y  keenest  pleasures.  It  was  bet- 
ter than  a  ruin.  A  ruin  possesses  memories  of  positive 
authenticity  ;  but  this  habitation,  still  standing,  though 
slowly  demolished  by  an  avenging  hand,  contained  some 
secret,  some  mysterious  thought,  —  it  betrayed  at  least 
a  strange  caprice. 

"  More  than  once  of  an  evening  I  jumped  the  hedge, 
now  a  tangle,  which  guarded  the  enclosure.  I  braved 
the  scratches  ;  I  walked  that  garden  without  a  master, 
that  propert}'^  which  was  neither  public  nor  private  ;  for 
hours  I  staj'ed  there  contemplating  its  decay.  Not 
even  to  obtain  the  history  which  underlay  (and  to 
which  no  doubt  was  due)  this  strange  spectacle  would 
I  have  asked  a  single  question  of  an}'  gossiping  coun- 
tryman. Standing  there  I  invented  enchanting  tales  ; 
I  gave  myself  up  to  debauches  of  melanchol}'  which 
fascinated  me.  Had  I  known  the  reason,  perhaps  a 
common  one,  for  this  strange  desertion,  I  should  have 


La   Grande  lintcche.  225 

lost  the  unwritten  poenis  with  which  I  intoxicated  my- 
self. To  me  this  siuicturiiy  evoked  the  most  varied 
images  of  human  UtV  darkened  l)y  sorrows;  sometimes 
it  was  a  cloister  without  the  nuns  ;  sometimes  a  grave- 
yard and  its  peace,  witiiout  the  drad  who  talk  to  you  in 
cpitajjlis  ;  to-day  the  house  of  the  le[)cr,  to-morrow  that 
of  the  Atrides  ;  but  above  all  was  it  the  provinces  with 
their  composed  ideas,  their  hour-glass  life. 

"  Often  I  wept  there,  but  I  never  smiled.  More  than 
once  an  involuntary  terror  seized  me,  as  I  heard  above 
my  head  the  mulUed  whirr  of  a  ringdove's  wings 
hurrying  past.  The  soil  is  damp ;  care  must  be  taken 
against  the  lizards,  the  vipers,  the  frogs,  which  wander 
about  with  the  wild  libert}'  of  nature;  above  all,  it  is 
well  not  to  fear  cohl,  for  there  are  moments  when  you 
feel  an  ic}'  mantle  laid  upon  your  shoulders  like  the 
hand  of  the  Commander  on  the  shoulder  of  Don  Juan. 
One  evening  I  shuddered  ;  the  wind  had  caught  and 
turned  a  rusty  vane.  Its  creak  was  like  a  moan  issuing 
from  the  house ;  at  a  moment,  too,  when  I  was  ending 
a  gloomy  drama  in  which  I  explained  to  myself  the 
monumental  dolor  of  that  scene. 

"  That  night  I  returned  to  my  inn,  a  pre}-  to  glooms- 
thoughts.  After  I  had  supped  the  landlady-  entered  my 
room  with  a  mysterious  air,  and  said  to  me,  '  3Ion- 
sieur.  Monsieur  ReLcnault  is  here.' 

"  '  Who  is  Monsieur  Regnault?' 
15 


226  La  Grande  Breteche. 

"'Is  it  possible  that  Monsieur  does  n't  know  Mon- 
sieur Regnault?  Ah,  how  funny!'  she  said,  leaving 
the  room. 

"  Suddenl}'  I  beheld  a  long,  slim  man,  clothed  in  black, 
holding  his  hat  in  his  hand,  who  presented  himself, 
much  like  a  ram  about  to  leap  on  a  rival,  and  showed 
me  a  retreating  forehead,  a  small,  pointed  head  and  a 
livid  face,  in  color  somewhat  like  a  glass  of  dirty  water. 
You  would  have  taken  him  for  the  usher  of  a  minister. 
This  unknown  personage  wore  an  old  coat  much  worn 
in  the  folds,  but  he  had  a  diamond  in  the  frill  of  his 
shirt,  and  gold  earrings  in  his  ears. 

"  '  Monsieur,  to  whom  have  I  the  honor  of  speaking? ' 
I  said. 

"  He  took  a  chair,  sat  down  before  my  fire,  laid  his 
hat  on  my  table  and  replied,  rubbing  his  hands :  '  Ah ! 
it  is  very  cold.     Monsieur,  I  am  Monsieur  Regnault.' 

"I  bowed,  saying  to  myself:  '7/  bondo  cani! 
seek ! ' 

"  '  I  am,'  he  said,  '  the  notary  of  Vendome.' 

"  '  Delighted,  monsieur,'  I  replied,  '  but  I  am  not  in 
the  way  of  making  my  will,  —  for  reasons,  alas,  too 
well-known  to  me.' 

"  '  One  moment ! '  he  resumed,  raising  his  hand  as  if 
to  impose  silence  ;  '  Permit  me,  monsieur,  permit  me ! 
I  have  learned  that  you  sometimes  enter  the  garden  of 
La  Grande  Breteche  and  walk  there  — ' 


La   Grande  Breteche.  227 

"  *  Yes,  monsieur.' 

"'One  nionieiit !  '  he  snid,  re|H'ating  his  prstiiro. 
'That  action  constitutes  a  misdenieunor.  Monsitiir,  I 
couie  in  the  name  and  as  testamentary  executor  of  ihe 
late  Comtosse  do  Merret  to  beg  you  to  discontinue  your 
visits.  One  moment !  I  am  not  a  Turk  ;  I  do  not  wish 
to  impute  a  crime  to  you.  IJesides,  it  is  quite  excusable 
that  you,  a  stranger,  should  be  ignorant  of  the  circum- 
stances which  com[x;l  me  to  let  the  handsomest  house 
in  Vendomc  go  to  ruin.  Nevertheless,  monsieur,  as 
you  seem  to  be  a  person  of  education,  you  no  doubt 
know  that  the  law  forbids  trespassers  on  enclosed 
property.  A  hedge  is  the  same  as  a  wall.  But  the 
state  in  whidi  that  house  is  left  may  well  excuse  your 
cm-iosity.  I  should  be  only  too  glad  to  leave  you  free 
to  go  and  come  as  30U  liked  there,  but  charged  as  I  am 
to  execute  the  wishes  of  the  testatrix,  I  have  the  honor, 
monsieur,  to  request  that  you  do  not  again  enter  that 
garden.  I  myself,  monsieur,  have  not,  since  the  read- 
ing of  the  will,  set  foot  in  that  house,  which,  as  I  have 
alread}'  had  the  honor  to  tell  you,  I  hold  under  the  will 
of  Madame  de  Merret.  We  have  onl}'  taken  account 
of  the  number  of  the  doors  and  windows  so  as  to  assess 
the  taxes  which  I  pay  annually  from  the  funds  left  by 
the  late  countess  for  that  purpose.  Ah,  monsieur,  that 
will  made  a  great  deal  of  noise  in  Vendumc  ! ' 

"There  the  woilhy  man  paused  to  blow  his  nose. 


228  La  Grande  Breteche. 

I  respected  his  loquacity,  understanding  perfectly  that 
the  testamentary  bequest  of  Madame  de  Merret  had 
been  the  most  important  event  of  his  life,  the  head  and 
front  of  his  reputation,  his  glory,  his  Restoration.  So 
then,  I  must  bid  adieu  to  my  beautiful  reveries,  my 
romances  !  I  was  not  so  rebellious  as  to  deprive  m}-- 
self  of  getting  the  truth,  as  it  were  officially,  out  of  the 
man  of  law,  so  I  said,  — 

"  '  Monsieur,  if  it  is  not  indiscreet,  may  I  ask  the 
reason  of  this  singularity?' 

"  At  these  words  a  look  which  expressed  the  pleas- 
ure of  a  man  who  rides  a  hobby  passed  over  Monsieur 
Regnault's  face.  He  pulled  up  his  shirt-collar  with  a 
certain  conceit,  took  out  his  snuff-box,  opened  it, 
oflfered  it  to  me,  and  on  my  refusal,  took  a  strong 
pinch  himself.  He  was  happy.  A  man  who  has  n't 
a  hobb}'  doesn't  know  how  much  can  be  got  out  of 
life.  A  hobby  is  the  exact  medium  between  a  passion 
and  a  monomania.  At  that  moment  I  understood 
Sterne's  fine  expression  to  its  fullest  extent,  and  I 
formed  a  complete  idea  of  the  joy  with  which  my  Uncle 
Toby  —  Trim  assisting  —  bestrode  his  war-horse. 

"'Monsieur,'  said  Monsieur  Regnault,  'I  was  for- 
merly head-clerk  to  Maitre  Roguin  in  Paris.  An  ex- 
cellent lawj-er's  office  of  which  3'ou  have  doubtless 
heard  ?  No  !  And  yet  a  most  unfortunate  failure  made 
it,  I  may  say,  celebrated.     Not  having  the  means  to 


La  Grande  Bretcche.  229 

bu}'  a  practice  in  Paris  at  the  price  to  wliich  tlu-y  rose 
in  181 G,  I  canio  here  to  Voiulnine,  where  I  have  re- 
lations, —  among  them  a  rich  aunt,  who  gave  nii.'  h«T 
daughter  in  marriage.' 

"  Here  be  made  a  slight  pause,  and  then  resumed  :  — 
"  '  Three  montiis  after  my  appointment  was  ratified 
by  Monseigneur  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals,  I  was  sent  for 
one  evening  just  as  I  was  going  to  bed  (I  was  not  then 
married)  by  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Merret.  then 
living  in  her  chateau  at  Merret.  Tier  lady's-maid,  an 
excellent  girl  who  is  now  serving  in  this  inn,  was  at 
the  door  with  the  countess's  carriage.  Ah !  one  mo- 
ment !  I  ought  to  tell  you,  monsieur,  that  Monsieur 
le  Comte  de  Merret  had  gone  to  die  in  Paris  about 
two  months  before  I  came  here.  He  died  a  miserable 
death  from  excesses  of  all  kinds,  to  which  he  gave  him- 
self up.  You  understand?  Well,  the  da}'  of  his  de- 
parture Marlanie  la  Comtesse  left  La  Grande  Breteche, 
and  dismantled  it.  The}-  do  say  that  she  even  burned 
the  furniture,  and  the  carpets,  and  all  appurtenances 
whatsoever  and  wheresoever  contained  on  the  premises 
leased  to  the  said  —  Ah !  beg  pardon  ;  what  am  I  say- 
ing? I  thought  I  was  dictating  a  lease.  Well,  monsieur, 
she  burned  everything,  they  sa}',  in  the  meadow  at 
Merret.     Were  3'ou  ever  at  Merret,  monsieur?' 

"  Not  waiting  for  me  to  speak,  he  answered  for  me  : 
*No.     Ah!    it  is  a  fine  spot?     For  three  months,  or 


230  La   Grande  Breteche. 

thereabouts,'  he  continued,  nodding  his  head,  '  Mon- 
sieur le  Comte  and  Madatae  la  Comtesse  had  been 
living  at  La  Grande  Breteche  in  a  very  singular  "waj-. 
They  admitted  no  one  to  the  house ;  madame  lived  on 
the  ground-floor,  and  monsieur  on  the  first  floor.  After 
Madame  la  Comtesse  was  left  alone  she  never  went  to 
church.  Later,  in  her  own  chateau  she  refused  to  see 
the  friends  who  came  to  visit  her.  She  changed  greatly 
after  she  left  La  Grande  Breteche  and  came  to  Merret 
That  dear  woman  (I  sa^'  dear,  though  I  never  saw  her 
but  once,  because  she  gave  me  this  diamond),  — 
that  good  lady  was  yevy  ill ;  no  doubt  she  had  given 
up  all  hope  of  recovery,  for  she  died  without  calling 
in  a  doctor ;  in  fact,  some  of  our  ladies  thought  she 
was  not  quite  right  in  her  mind.  Consequently,  mon- 
sieur, my  curiosity  was  greatly  excited  when  I  learned 
that  Madame  de  Merret  needed  my  services ;  and  I 
was  not  the  only  one  deeply  interested ;  that  very 
night,  though  it  was  late,  the  whole  town  knew  I  had 
gone  to  Merret.' 

"The  good  man  paused  a  moment  to  arrange  his 
facts,  and  then  continued :  '  The  lady's  maid  answered 
rather  vaguely  the  questions  which  I  put  to  her  as  we 
drove  along ;  she  did,  however,  tell  me  that  her  mis- 
tress had  received  the  last  sacraments  that  day  from 
the  curate  of  Merret,  and  that  she  was  not  likely  to 
live  thi'ough  the  night.     I  reached  the  chateau  about 


La    Grande  Bretrche.  281 

eleven  o'clock.  I  went  up  tlie  gnmd  Btaircase.  Aflcr 
passing  through  a  number  of  dark  and  lofty  ro<«ns, 
horribly  cold  and  damp,  I  entered  the  state  bedroom 
where  Madame  la  Comtesse  was  l3ing.  In  conse- 
quence of  the  man}'  stories  that  were  told  about  this 
huly  (really,  monsieur,  I  should  never  end  if  I  related 
all  of  them)  I  expected  to  find  her  a  fascinating  co- 
quette. Would  you  believe  it,  J  could  scarcely  see  her 
at  all  in  the  huge  bed  in  which  she  lay.  It  is  true  that 
the  only  light  in  that  vast  room,  with  friezes  of  the  old 
style  powdered  with  dust  enough  to  make  3-ou  sneeze  on 
nierel}'  looking  at  them,  was  one  Argand  lamp.  Ah  ! 
but  30U  say  you  have  never  been  at  IMenet.  Well, 
monsieur,  the  bed  was  one  of  those  old-time  beds  with 
a  high  tester  covered  with  tlowcrcd  chintz.  A  little 
night-table  stood  by  the  bed,  and  on  it  I  noticed  a  copy 
of  the  "  Imitation  of  Christ." 

"'Allow  me  a  parenthesis,'  he  said,  interrupting 
himself.  '  I  bought  that  book  subsequentl}-,  also  the 
lamp,  and  presented  them  to  my  wife.  In  the  room 
was  a  large  sofa  for  the  woman  who  was  taking  care  of 
]\Iadame  de  Mcrret,  and  two  chairs.  That  was  all.  No 
fire.  The  whole  would  not  have  made  ten  lines  of  an 
inventory.  Ah !  my  dear  monsieur,  could  30U  have 
seen  her  as  I  saw  her  then,  in  that  vast  room  hung  with 
brown  tapestr}',  you  would  have  imagined  you  were  in 
the  pages  of  a  novel.     It  was  glacial,  —  better  than  that, 


232  La   Grande  Breteche. 

funereal,'  added  the  worth}^  man,  raising  his  arm  the- 
atrically and  making  a  pause.     Presentl}^  he  resumed : 

"  '  By  dint  of  peering  round  and  coming  close  to  the 
bed  I  at  length  saw  Madame  de  Merret,  thanks  to  the 
lamp  which  happened  to  shine  on  the  pillows.  Her  face 
was  as  yellow  as  wax,  and  looked  like  two  hands  joined 
together.  Madame  la  Comtesse  wore  a  lace  cap,  which, 
however,  allowed  me  to  see  her  fine  hair,  white  as  snow. 
She  was  sitting  up  in  the  bed,  but  apparentl}'  did  so 
with  difficult}'.  Her  large  black  eyes,  sunken  no  doubt 
with  fever,  and  almost  lifeless,  hardl}'  moved  beneath  the 
bones  where  the  eyebrows  usually  grow.  Her  forehead 
was  damp.  Her  fleshless  hands  were  like  bones  cov- 
ered with  thin  skin  ;  the  veins  and  muscles  could  all  be 
seen.  She  must  once  have  been  ver}-  handsome,  but  now 
I  was  seized  with  —  I  couldn't  tell  you  what  feeling,  as 
I  looked  at  her.  Those  who  buried  her  said  afterwards 
that  no  living  creature  had  ever  been  as  wasted  as  she 
without  dying.  Well,  it  was  awful  to  see.  Some  mor- 
tal disease  bad  eaten  up  that  woman  till  there  was 
nothing  left  of  her  but  a  phantom.  Her  lips,  of  a  pale 
violet,  seemed  not  to  move  when  she  spoke.  Though 
my  profession  had  familiarized  me  with  such  scenes, 
in  bringing  me  often  to  the  bedside  of  the  dying,  to 
receive  their  last  wishes,  I  must  say  that  the  tears  and 
the  anguish  of  families  and  friends  which  I  have  wit- 
nessed  were    as    nothing    compared    to    this    solitary 


La  Grande  Breteche.  233 

woman  ill  that  vast  luiildinjr.  I  did  not  hoar  the  sli}»ht- 
est  noise,  I  did  not  soc  the  inovenient  which  the  breath- 
ing of  the  dying  woman  would  naturally  give  to  the 
sheet  that  covered  her ;  1  myself  remained  motionless, 
looking  at  her  in  a  sort  of  stupor.  Indeed.  I  fancy  I 
am  there  still.  At  last  her  large  eyes  moved ;  she 
tried  to  lift  her  right  hand,  which  fell  back  upon  the 
bed ;  then  these  words  issued  from  her  lips  like  a 
breath,  for  her  voice  was  no  longer  a  voice,  — 

"  '  "I  have  awaited  you  with  impatience." 

"  '  Her  cheeks  colored.  The  effort  to  speak  was 
great.  The  old  woman  who  was  watching  her  here 
rose  and  whispered  in  my  ear :  "  Don't  speak  ;  Madame 
la  Comtesse  is  past  hearing  the  slightest  sound  ;  you 
would  only  agiUite  her."  I  sat  down.  A  few  moments 
later  Madame  de  Merret  collected  all  her  remaining 
strength  to  move  her  right  arm  and  put  it,  not  without 
great  dilllculty,  uiuler  her  bolster.  She  paused  an  in- 
stant ;  then  she  made  a  last  effort  and  withdrew  her 
hand  which  now  held  a  sealed  paper.  Great  drops  of 
sweat  rolled  from  her  forehead. 

"  '  "  I  give  3"ou  my  will,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  m}' 
God  !     Oh  !  " 

"  'That  was  all.  She  seized  a  crucifix  which  lay  on 
her  bed,  pressed  it  to  her  lips  and  died.  The  expression 
of  her  fixed  eyes  still  makes  me  shudder  wlien  I  think 
of  it.     I  brought  away  the  will.     "When  it  was  opened 


234  La  Grande  Breteche. 

I  found  that  Madame  de  Merret  liad  appointed  me  her 
executor.  She  bequeathed  her  whole  property  to  the 
hospital  of  Vendome,  save  and  excepting  certain  be- 
quests. The  following  disposition  was  made  of  La 
Grande  Breteche.  I  was  directed  to  leave  it  in  the 
state  in  which  it  was  at  the  time  of  her  death  for  a 
period  of  fifty  years  from  the  date  of  her  decease ;  I 
was  to  forbid  all  access  to  it,  by  any  and  every  one,  no 
matter  who ;  to  make  no  repairs,  and  to  put  by  from 
her  estate  a  yearly  sum  to  pay  watchers,  if  they  were 
necessary,  to  insure  the  faithful  execution  of  these 
intentions.  At  the  expiration  of  that  time  the  estate 
was,  if  the  testatrix's  will  had  been  carried  out  in  all 
particulars,  to  belong  to  mj'  heirs  (because,  as  mon- 
sieur is  doubtless  well  aware,  notaries  are  forbidden  by 
law  to  receive  legacies) ;  if  otherwise,  then  La  Grande 
Breteche  was  to  go  to  whoever  might  establish  a  right 
to  it,  but  on  condition  of  fulfilling  certain  orders  con- 
tained in  a  codicil  annexed  to  the  will  and  not  to  be 
opened  until  the  expiration  of  the  fifty  years.  The  will 
has  never  been  attacked,  consequently  — ' 

"  Here  the  oblong  notary,  without  finishing  his  sen- 
tence, looked  at  me  triumphantly.  I  made  him  perfectly 
happy  with  a  few  compliments. 

"'Monsieur,'  I  said,  in  conclusion,  'you  have  so 
deeply  impressed  that  scene  upon  me  that  I  seem  to 
see  the  dj'ing  woman,  whiter  than  the  sheets ;  those 


La  Grande  Breteche.  285 

glittering  eyes  horrify  nic  ;  I  shall  dream  of  her  nil 
night,  lint  you  must  have  formed  some  conjectures  as 
to  the  motive  of  that  extraordinary  will.' 

"'Monsieur,'  he  replied,  with  comical  reserve,  'I 
never  permit  myself  to  judge  of  the  motives  of  those 
who  honor  me  with  the  gift  of  a  diamond.' 

"  However,  I  managed  to  unloose  the  tongue  of  the 
scrupulous  notary  so  far  that  he  told  me,  not  without 
long  digressions,  certain  opinions  on  the  matter  emanat- 
ing from  the  wise-heads  of  both  sexes  whose  judgments 
made  the  social  law  of  VendOmc.  But  these  opinions 
and  observations  were  so  contradictory,  so  diffuse, 
that  I  well-nigh  went  to  sleep  in  spite  of  the  interest  I 
felt  in  this  authentic  stor}'.  The  heav}'  manner  and 
monotonous  accent  of  the  notary,  who  was  no  doubt  in 
the  habit  of  listening  to  himself  and  making  his  clients 
and  compatriots  listen  to  him,  triumphed  over  my  curi- 
osity.    Happily,  he  did  at  last  go  away. 

"  'Ha,  ha!  monsieur,'  he  said  to  me  at  the  head  of 
the  stairs,  '  man}'  persons  would  like  to  live  their  forty- 
five  years  longer,  but,  one  moment ! '  —  here  he  laid  the 
forefinger  of  his  right  band  on  his  nose  as  if  he  meant 
to  say,  Now  pay  attention  to  this !  —  'in  order  to  do 
that,  to  do  that,  thev  ought  to  skip  the  sixties.' 

"  I  shut  ni}-  door,  the  notary's  jest,  which  he  thought 
very  witty,  having  drawn  me  from  my  apath}' ;  then  I 
sat  down  in  my  armchair  and  put  both  feet  on  the 


236  La   Grande  Breteche. 

andirons.  I  was  plunged  in  a  romance  a  la  Radeliffe, 
based  on  the  notarial  disclosures  of  Monsieur  Regnault, 
when  my  door,  softh'  opened  by  the  hand  of  a  woman, 
turned  noiselessly  on  its  hinges. 

"  I  saw  my  landlad}',  a  jovial,  stout  woman,  with  a 
fine,  good-humored  face,  who  had  missed  her  true  sur- 
roundings ;  she  was  from  Flanders,  and  might  have 
stepped  out  of  a  picture  b}'  Teniers. 

"  '  Well,  monsieur,'  she  said,  '  Monsieur  Regnault 
has  no  doubt  recited  to  you  his  famous  tale  of  La 
Grande  Breteche?' 

"  '  Yes,  Madame  Lepas.' 

'"What  did  he  tell  you?' 

"I  repeated  in  a  few  words  the  dark  and  chilling 
story  of  Madame  de  Merret  as  imparted  to  me  hy  the 
notar}'.  At  each  sentence  my  landlady  ran  out  her 
chin  and  looked  at  me  with  the  perspicacity  of  an  inn- 
keeper, which  combines  the  instinct  of  a  policeman,  the 
astuteness  of  a  spy,  and  the  cunning  of  a  shopkeeper. 

"  'M3'  dear  Madame  Lepas,'  I  added,  in  conclusion, 
'  you  evidently  know  more  than  that.  If  not,  wh}'  did 
you  come  up  here  to  me  ? ' 

"  '  On  the  word,  now,  of  an  honest  woman,  just  as 
true  as  my  name  is  Lepas  — ' 

"  '  Don't  swear,  for  your  eyes  are  full  of  the  secret. 
You  knew  Monsieur  de  Merret.  What  sort  of  man 
was  he?' 


La   Grande  Bretcrhe.  287 

"  *  Goo(1nos8 !  Monsieur  do  Mcrnt?  well,  you  sec,  ho 
was  a  haiulsorae  man,  so  tall  you  never  could  sec  tho 
top  of  him,  —  a  very  worthy  gentleman  from  Picardy, 
who  had,  as  3'ou  may  say,  a  temper  of  his  own  ,  and 
he  kiu'w  it.  He  paid  every  one  in  cash  so  as  to  have 
no  quarrels.  But,  I  tell  you,  he  could  be  quick.  Our 
ladies  thought  him  very  pleasant' 

"  'Because  of  his  temper?'  I  asked. 

"'Perhaps,'  she  replied.  'You  know,  monsieur,  a 
man  must  have  something  to  the  fore,  as  they  say,  to 
marry  a  lady  like  Madame  de  Merret,  who,  without 
disparaging  others,  was  the  handsomest  and  the  rich- 
est woman  in  Vendome.  She  had  an  income  of  nearly 
twenty  thousand  francs.  All  the  town  was  at  the  wed- 
ding. The  bride  was  so  dainty  and  captivating,  a  real 
little  jewel  of  a  woman.  Ah  !  they  were  a  fine  couple 
in  those  days  ! ' 

"  '  "Was  their  home  a  happy  one?' 

"  '  Hum,  hum  !  3-es  and  no,  so  far  as  any  one  can 
say  ;  for  you  know  well  enough  that  the  like  of  us 
don't  live  hand  and  glove  with  the  like  of  them.  Ma- 
dame de  IMerret  was  a  good  woman  and  very  charming, 
who  no  doubt  had  to  bear  a  good  deal  from  her  hus- 
band's temper ;  we  all  liked  her  though  she  was  rather 
haughty.  Bah  !  that  was  her  bringing  up,  and  she  was 
born  so.     When  people  are  noble  —  don't  j'ou  see  ? ' 

" '  Yes,    but   there   must   have   been    some    terrible 


238  La  Grande  Breteche. 

catastrophe,  for  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Merret  to 
separate  violentl}'.' 

"'I  never  said  there  was  a  catastrophe,  monsieur; 
I  know  nothing  about  it.' 

"  '  Very  good  ;  now  I  am  certain  that  you  know  all.' 

"'Well,  monsieur,  I'll  tell  j^ou  all  I  do  know. 
When  I  saw  Monsieur  Regnault  coming  after  3'ou  I 
knew  he  would  tell  you  about  Madame  de  Merret  and 
La  Grande  Breteche ;  and  that  gave  me  the  idea  of 
consulting  monsieur,  who  seems  to  be  a  gentleman  of 
good  sense,  incapable  of  betraying  a  poor  woman  like 
me,  who  has  never  done  harm  to  any  one,  but  who  is, 
somehow,  troubled  in  her  conscience.  I  have  never 
dared  to  say  a  word  to  the  people  about  here,  for 
they  are  all  gossips,  with  tongues  like  steel  blades. 
And  there's  never  been  a  traveller  who  has  sta3-ed 
as  long  as  you  have,  monsieur,  to  whom  I  could  tell 
all  about  the  fifteen  thousand  francs  — ' 

"  '  My  dear  Madame  Lepas,'  I  replied,  trying  to  stop 
the  flow  of  words,  '  if  your  confidence  is  of  a  nature  to 
compromise  me,  I  would  n't  hear  it  for  worlds.' 

"  '  Oh,  don't  be  afraid,'  she  said,  interrupting  me. 
'  You  '11  see  — ' 

"  This  haste  to  tell  made  me  quite  certain  I  was  not 
the  first  to  whom  my  good  landlady  had  communicated 
the  secret  of  which  I  was  to  be  the  sole  repositary,  so  I 
listened. 


La   Grande  Bretdche.  289 

*' '  Monsieur,'  she  said,  *  when  the  Emperor  sent  the 
Spanish  luul  otlicr  prisonors  of  war  to  Vcndomi'  I  lo<I^t'd 
ouu  of  tliem  (at  the  cost  of  the  government),  — a  young 
Spaniard  on  parole.  But  in  spite  of  his  parole  he  had 
to  report  every  day  to  the  sub-prefect.  He  was  a  gran- 
doe  of  Spain,  with  a  name  that  ended  in  os  and  in  dia^ 
like  all  Spaniards  —  Bagos  de  Fiiredia.  I  wrote  his 
name  on  the  register,  and  you  can  sec  it  if  you  like. 
Oh,  he  was  a  handsome  young  fellow  for  a  Spaniard, 
who,  they  tell  nic,  are  all  ugly.  lie  was  n't  more  than 
five  feet  two  or  three  inches,  but  he  was  well  made. 
He  had  pretty  little  hands  which  he  took  care  of —  ah, 
you  should  just  have  seen  him !  lie  had  as  many 
brushes  for  tliose  hands  as  a  woman  has  for  her  head. 
He  had  fine  black  hair,  a  fiery  eye,  a  rather  copper- 
coloretl  skin,  but  it  was  pleasant  to  look  at  all  the  same. 
He  wore  the  finest  linen  I  ever  saw  on  an}-  one,  and  I 
have  lodged  princesses,  and,  among  others.  General 
Bertrand,  the  Due  and  Ducbesse  d'Abrantos,  Monsieur 
Decazes  and  the  King  of  Spain.  He  did  n't  eat  much  ; 
but  he  had  such  polite  manners  and  was  always  so  ami- 
able that  I  could  n't  find  fault  with  him.  Oh !  I  did 
really  love  him,  though  he  never  said  four  words  a  day 
to  me  ;  if  any  one  spoke  to  him,  he  never  answered,  — 
that 's  an  oddity  those  grandees  have,  a  sort  of  mania, 
so  I  'm  told.  He  read  his  breviar}-  like  a  priest,  and  he 
went  to  mass  and  to  all  the  services  regularlv-     "Where 


240  La   Grande  Breteche. 

do  you  think  he  sat  ?  close  to  the  chapel  of  Madame  de 
Merret.  But  as  he  took  that  place  the  first  time  he  went 
to  church  nobod}^  attached  any  importance  to  the  fact, 
though  it  was  remembered  later.  Besides,  he  never 
took  his  eyes  off  his  prayer-book,  poor  young  man  ! ' 

"My  jovial  landlady  paused  a  moment,  overcome 
with  her  recollections ;  then  she  continued  her  tale : 

"  '  From  that  time  on,  monsieur,  he  used  to  walk  up 
the  mountain  every  evening  to  the  ruins  of  the  castle. 
It  was  his  onl}"  amusement,  poor  man  !  and  I  dare  say 
it  recalled  his  own  countrj' ;  they  say  Spain  is  all 
mountains.  From  the  first  he  was  alwa3's  late  at  night 
in  coming  in.  I  used  to  be  uneasy  at  never  seeing  him 
before  the  stroke  of  midnight ;  but  we  got  accustomed 
to  his  ways  and  gave  him  a  key  to  the  door,  so  that  we 
did  n't  have  to  sit  up.  It  so  happened  that  one  of  our 
grooms  told  us  that  one  evening  when  he  went  to  bathe 
his  horses  he  thought  he  saw  the  grandee  in  the  dis- 
tance, swimming  in  the  river  like  a  fish.  When  he 
came  in  I  told  him  he  had  better  take  care  not  to  get 
entangled  in  the  sedges ;  he  seemed  annoyed  that  any 
one  had  seen  him  in  the  water.  Well,  monsieur,  one 
day,  or  rather,  one  morning,  we  did  not  find  him  in  his 
room ;  he  had  not  come  in.  He  never  returned.  I 
looked  about  and  into  everj'thing,  and  at  last  I  found 
a  writing  in  a  table  drawer  where  he  had  put  avfay  fifty 
of  those  Spanish  gold  coins  called  "  portugaise,"  which 


La   Grande  Bretcche.  2J1 

bring  a  hundred  francs  npitcc  ;  tla-re  were  also  dia- 
monds worth  ten  tliousand  francs  sealed  up  in  a  Utile 
box.  The  paper  said  that  in  case  he  should  not  return 
some  day,  he  be(iueathed  to  us  the  money  and  the 
diamonds,  with  a  retiuest  to  found  njasses  of  thanks- 
giving to  God  for  his  escape  and  safety.  In  those  days 
my  husband  was  living,  and  he  did  everything  he  could 
to  find  the  young  man.  liut,  it  was  the  queerest  thing  ! 
he  found  only  the  Si)aniard's  clothes  under  a  big  stone 
in  a  sort  of  shed  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  on  the  castle 
side,  just  opposite  to  La  Grande  lireti-che.  My  hus- 
band went  so  early  in  the  morning  that  no  one  saw  him. 
He  burned  the  clothes  after  we  had  read  the  letter,  and 
gave  out,  as  Comte  Feredia  requested,  that  he  had  fled. 
The  sub-prefect  sent  the  whole  gendarmerie  on  his 
traces,  but  bless  your  heart !  they  never  caught  him. 
Lepas  thought  the  Spaniard  had  drowned  himself.  But, 
monsieur,  I  never  thought  so.  I  think  he  was  somehow 
mixed  up  in  :Madame  de  Merret's  trouble  ;  and  I  '11  tell 
you  why.  Rosalie  has  told  me  that  her  mistress  had  a 
crucifix  she  valued  so  much  that  she  was  buried  with  it, 
and  it  was  made  of  ebony  and  silver ;  now  when  Mon- 
sieur de  Feredia  first  came  to  lodge  with  us  he  had  just 
such  a  crucifix,  but  I  soon  missed  it.  Now.  nionsit-ur, 
■what  do  you  saj'?  isn't  it  true  that  I  need  have  no 
remorse  about  those  fifteen  thousand  francs?  are  not 
they  rightfully  mine?' 

16 


242  La  Grande  Breteche, 

"  '  Of  course  they  are.  But  how  is  it  you  have  never 
questioned  Rosalie?'  I  said. 

"  '  Oh,  I  have,  monsieur  ;  but  I  can  get  nothing  out 
of  her.  That  girl  is  a  stone  wall.  She  knows  some- 
thing, but  there  is  no  making  her  talk.' 

"After  a  few  more  remarks,  my  landlad}'  left  me,  a 
prey  to  a  romantic  curiosity,  to  vague  and  darkling 
thoughts,  to  a  religious  terror  that  was  something  like 
the  awe  which  comes  upon  us  when  we  enter  b}^  night 
a  gloomy  church  and  see  in  the  distance  beneath  the 
arches  a  feeble  light ;  a  formless  figure  glides  before 
us,  the  sweep  of  a  robe  —  of  priest  or  woman  —  is 
heard  ;  we  shudder.  La  Grande  Breteche,  with  its  tall 
grasses,  its  shuttered  windows,  its  rust}'  railings,  its 
barred  gates,  its  deserted  rooms,  rose  fantastically 
and  suddenly  before  me.  I  tried  to  penetrate  that 
mysterious  dwelling  and  seek  the  knot  of  this  most 
solemn  history,  this  drama  which  had  killed  three 
persons. 

"  Rosalie  became  to  my  eyes  the  most  interesting 
person  in  Vendome.  Examining  her,  I  discovered  the 
traces  of  an  ever-present  inward  thought.  In  spite  of 
the  health  which  bloomed  upon  her  dimpled  face,  there 
was  in  her  some  element  of  remorse,  or  of  hope ;  her 
attitude  bespoke  a  secret,  like  that  of  devotees  who 
pray  with  ardor,  or  that  of  a  girl  who  has  killed  her 
child  and  forever  after  hears  its  cry.    And  yet  her  pos- 


La  Grande  Bretcche.  243 

tiiros  wore  nuivi',  uiul  vwn  vulL^ar ;  her  silly  smile  was 
surely  not  criujinul ;  you  wouUl  have  judged  her  inno- 
cent if  only  by  the  large  neckerchief  of  blue  and  red 
sijuares  wiiich  covered  her  vigorous  bust,  clothed,  con- 
fuied,  anil  set  olf  b}'  a  gown  of  purple  and  white  stripes. 
'  No,'  thought  I ;  '  I  will  not  leave  Vendonic  without 
knowing  the  history  of  La  Grande  lireteche.  I  '11  even 
make  love  to  Rosalie,  if  it  is  absolutely  necessary.' 

"  '  Rosalie  ! '  I  saiil  to  her  one  day. 

"  '  What  is  it,  monsieur? ' 

"  '  You  arc  not  married,  arc  3'ou?' 

She  trembled  slightly. 

"'Oh!  when  the  fane}'  takes  nie  to  be  unhappy 
there  '11  be  no  lack  of  men,*  she  said,  laughing. 

"She  recovered  instantly  from  her  emotion,  what- 
ever it  was  ;  for  all  women,  from  the  great  laily  to  the 
chambermaid  of  an  inn,  have  a  self-possession  of  their 
own. 

"  'You  are  fresh  enough  and  taking  enough  to  please 
a  lover,'  I  said,  watching  her.  '  But  tell  me,  Rosalie, 
why  did  you  take  a  place  at  an  inn  after  you  left  ^la- 
dame  de  Merret?    Did  n't  she  leave  you  an  annuity? ' 

"  '  Oh,  3es,  she  did.  But,  monsieur,  my  place  is  the 
best  in  all  Yendome.' 

"This  answer  was  evidently  what  judges  and  lawyers 
call  '  dilatory.'  Rosalie's  position  in  this  romantic  his- 
tory was  like  that  of  a  square  on  a  checkerboard ;  she 


244  La  Crrande  Bretiche. 

was  at  the  very  centre,  as  it  were,  of  its  truth  and  its 
interest ;  she  seemed  to  me  to  be  tied  into  the  knot  of 
it.  The  last  chapter  of  the  tale  was  in  her,  and,  from 
the  moment  that  I  realized  this,  Rosalie  became  to  me 
an  object  of  attraction.  By  dint  of  studying  the  girl 
I  came  to  find  in  her,  as  we  do  in  every  woman  whom 
we  make  a  principal  object  of  our  attention,  that  she 
had  a  host  of  good  qualities.  She  was  clean,  and 
careful  of  herself,  and  therefore  handsome.  Some  two 
or  three  weeks  after  the  notary's  visit  I  said  to  her, 
suddenly :  '  Tell  me  all  you  know  about  Madame  de 
Merret.' 

' ' '  Oh,  no  ! '  she  replied,  in  a  tone  of  terror,  '  don't 
ask  me  that,  monsieur.' 

"  I  persisted  in  urging  her.  Her  pretty  face  dark- 
ened, her  bright  color  faded,  her  eyes  lost  their  inno- 
cent, liquid  light. 

"  'Well! '  she  said,  after  a  pause,  'if  you  will  have 
it  so,  I  will  tell  you  ;  but  keep  the  secret.' 

"  '  I  '11  keep  it  with  the  faithfulness  of  a  thief,  which 
is  the  most  loyal  to  be  found  anywhere.' 

"'  If  it  is  the  same  to  j^ou,  monsieur,  I  'd  rather  you 
kept  it  with  3'our  own.' 

' '  Thereupon,  she  adjusted  her  neckerchief  and  posed 
herself  to  tell  the  tale ;  for  it  is  very  certain  that  an 
attitude  of  confidence  and  security  is  desirable  in  order 
to  make  a  narration.     The  best  tales  are  told  at  special 


La   Grnudi    IWrtrrhe.  246 

hours,--    liko  lli:it,   in   wliiili  we   :irr   now   at    tiililc.      No 
one  ever  toKl  u  story  well,  standiiiji  or  fnMtiiijj. 

"  If  I  were  to  reproduce  faithfully  poor  HoHnlie'a 
(litfusc  eloquence,  a  whole  volume  would  scarce  sulllce. 
Hut  as  the  event  of  which  she  now  <^ave  nic  a  ha/.y 
knowledge  falls  into  place  between  the  facts  revealed 
by  the  garrulity  of  the  notary,  and  that  of  Madame 
Le[)as,  as  precisely  as  the  mean  terms  of  an  arithmeti- 
cal proposition  lie  between  its  two  extremes,  all  I  have 
to  do  is  to  tell  it  to  you  in  few  words.  I  therefore 
give  a  summary  of  what  I  heard  from  Kosalie. 

"The  chamber  which  Madame  dc  Merret  occupied 
at  La  Grande  Brcteche  was  on  the  ground-floor.  A 
small  closet  about  four  feet  in  depth  was  made  in  the 
wall,  and  son-ed  as  a  wardrobe.  Three  months  before 
the  evening  when  the  facts  I  am  about  to  relate  to  you 
happened,  Madame  de  Merret  liad  been  so  seriously 
unwell  that  her  husband  left  her  alone  in  her  room  and 
slept  himself  in  a  chamber  on  the  first  floor.  By  one  of 
those  mere  chances  which  it  is  impossible  to  foresee,  he 
returned,  on  the  evening  in  question,  two  hours  later 
than  usual  from  the  club  where  he  went  habitually  to 
re.ad  the  papers  and  talk  politics  with  the  inhabitants  of 
the  town.  His  wife  thought  him  at  home  and  in  l»ed 
and  asleep.  But  the  invasion  of  France  had  been  the 
subject  of  a  livel}'  discussion  ;  the  game  of  billiards  was 
a  he.ated  one  ;  he  had  lost  forty  francs,  an  enormous  sura 


246  La   Grande  BretecJie. 

for  Vendorae,  where  everjbod}-  hoards  his  money,  and 
where  manners  and  customs  are  restrained  within  modest 
limits  worth}'  of  all  praise,  —  which  may,  perhaps,  be 
the  source  of  a  certain  true  happiness  which  no  Parisian 
cares  anything  at  all  about. 

"  For  some  time  past  Monsieur  de  Merret  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  asking  Rosalie,  when  he  came  in,  if  his 
wife  were  in  bed.  Being  told,  invariabl}',  that  she  was, 
he  at  once  went  to  his  own  room  with  the  contentment 
that  comes  of  confidence  and  custom.  This  evening, 
on  returning  home,  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  go  to 
Madame  de  Merret's  room  and  tell  her  his  ill-luck, 
perhaps  to  be  consoled  for  it.  During  dinner  he  had 
noticed  that  his  wife  was  coquettishly  dressed ;  and  as 
he  came  from  the  club  the  thought  crossed  his  mind 
that  she  was  no  longer  ill,  that  her  convalescence  had 
made  her  lovelier  than  ever,  —  a  fact  he  perceived,  as 
husbands  are  wont  to  perceive  things,  too  late. 

"  Instead  of  calling  Rosalie,  who  at  that  moment  was 
in  the  kitchen  watching  a  complicated  game  of  '  brisque,* 
at  which  the  cook  and  the  coachman  were  playing, 
Monsieur  de  Merret  went  straight  to  his  wife's  room  by 
the  light  of  his  lantern,  which  he  had  placed  on  the 
first  step  of  the  stairway.  His  step,  which  was  easily 
recognized,  resounded  under  the  arches  of  the  corridor. 
Just  as  he  turned  the  handle  of  his  wife's  door  he  fan- 
cied he  heard  the  door  of  the  closet,  which  I  mentioned 


Ln   Grande  Bretcche.  247 

to  you,  shut ;  but  when  lie  entered,  Madame  de  Mcrrct 
was  alone,  standing  before  tlie  fireplace.  The  husband 
thought  to  himself  that  Rosalie  nuist  be  in  the  closet ; 
and  }'et  a  suspicion,  which  sounded  in  his  ears  like 
the  ringing  of  bells,  made  him  distnistful.  lie  looked 
at  his  wife,  and  fancied  he  saw  something  wild  and 
troubled  in  her  eyes. 

"  '  You  are  late  in  coming  home,'  she  said.  That 
voice,  usually  so  pure  and  gracious,  seemed  to  him 
slightly  changed. 

"  Monsieur  de  Mcrrct  made  no  answer,  for  at  that 
moment  Rosalie  entered  the  room.  Her  appearance 
was  a  thunderbolt  to  him.  lie  walked  up  and  down 
the  room  with  his  arms  crossed,  going  from  one  win- 
dow to  another  with  a  uniform  movement. 

"  '  Have  30U  heard  anything  to  trouble  you?'  asked 
his  wife,  timidly,  while  Rosalie  was  undressing  her. 
He  made  no  answer. 

'* '  You  can  leave  the  room,'  said  ^Madame  dc  Merret 
to  the  maid.     '  I  will  arrange  my  hair  myself.' 

"  She  guessed  some  misfortune  at  the  mere  sight  of 
her  husband's  face,  and  wished  to  be  alone  with 
him. 

''  "When  Rosalie  was  gone,  or  supposed  to  be  gone, 
for  she  went  no  further  than  the  corridor,  Monsieur  de 
Merret  came  to  his  wife  and  stood  before  her.  Then 
he  said,  coldl}' : 


248  La   Grande  Breteche. 

"  '  Madame,  there  is  some  one  in  your  closet.' 

"  She  looked  at  her  husband  with  a  calm  air,  and 
answered,  '  No,  monsieur.' 

"  That  '  no '  agonized  Monsieur  de  Merret,  for  he 
did  not  believe  it.  And  yet  his  wife  had  never  seemed 
purer  nor  more  saintly  than  she  did  at  that  moment. 
He  rose  and  went  towards  the  closet  to  open  the  door ; 
Madame  de  Merret  took  him  by  the  hand  and  stopped 
him ;  she  looked  at  him  with  a  sad  air  and  said,  in 
a  voice  that  was  strangely  shaken :  '  If  you  find  no 
one,  remember  that  all  is  over  between  us.' 

"  The  infinite  dignity  of  his  wife's  demeanor  restored 
her  husband's  respect  for  her,  and  suddenly  inspired 
him  with  one  of  those  resolutions  which  need  some 
wider  field  to  become  immortal. 

"'No,  Josephine,'  he  said,  *I  will  not  look  there. 
In  either  case  we  should  be  separated  forever.  Listen 
to  me  :  I  know  the  purity  of  your  soul,  I  know  that  you 
lead  a  saintly  life  ;  you  would  not  commit  a  mortal  sin 
to  save  yourself  from  death.' 

"  At  these  woixls,  Madame  de  Merret  looked  at  her 
husband  with  a  haggard  eye. 

"  '  Here  is  your  crucifix,'  he  went  on.  '  Swear  to  me 
before  God  that  there  is  no  one  in  that  closet  and  I  will 
believe  you  ;  I  will  not  open  that  door.' 

"Madame  de  Merret  took  the  crucifix  and  said  'I 
swear  it.' 


La   Grande  Bretcrhe.  249 

*'  *  Louder  I '  said  her  husband  ;  '  ropcnt  nflor  mo,  —  I 
swear  before  God  that  there  is  no  person  in  timt 
closet.' 

"  She  repeated  the  words  composedly. 

"'That  is  well,'  said  Monsieur  de  Merret,  coldly. 
After  a  moment's  sik'ncc  he  added,  examining  the 
ebony  crucifix  inlaid  with  silver,  'That  is  a  beautiful 
thing ;  I  did  not  know  you  possessed  it ;  it  is  very 
artisticall}*  wrought.' 

"  '  I  found  it  at  Duvivier's,'  she  replied  ;  *  he  bought 
it  of  a  Spanish  monk  when  those  prisoners -of- war 
passetl  through  Vcndume  last  3*ear.* 

"  '  Ah ! '  said  Monsieur  de  Merret,  replacing  the 
crucifix  on  the  wall.  He  rang  the  bell.  Rosalie  was 
not  long  in  answering  it.  Monsieur  de  Merret  went 
quickly  up  to  her,  took  her  into  the  recess  of  a  window 
on  the  garden  side,  and  said  to  her  in  a  low  voice  :  — 

"  '  I  am  told  that  Gorenflot  wants  to  marrj*  you,  and 
that  poverty  alone  prevents  it,  for  you  have  told  him 
you  will  not  be  his  wife  until  he  is  a  master-mason.  Is 
that  so?' 

"  '  Yes,  monsieur.' 

"  '  "Well,  go  and  find  him  ;  tell  him  to  come  here  at 
once  and  bring  his  trowel  and  other  tools.  Take  care 
not  to  wake  any  one  at  his  house  but  himself;  he  will 
soon  have  enough  money  to  satisfy  you.  No  talking  to 
anv  one  when  vou  leave  this  room,  mind,  or — * 


250  La  Grande  Breteehe. 

"  He  frowned.  Rosalie  left  the  room.  He  called  her 
back  ;  '  Here,  take  my  pass-key,'  he  said. 

"  Monsieur  de  Merret,  who  had  kept  his  wife  in  view 
while  giving  these  orders,  now  sat  down  beside  her 
before  the  fire  and  began  to  tell  her  of  his  game  of 
billiards,  and  the  political  discussions  at  the  club. 
When  Rosalie  returned  she  found  Monsieur  and  Ma- 
dame de  Merret  talking  amicably. 

"The  master  had  latel}'  had  the  ceilings  of  all  the 
reception  rooms  on  the  lower  floor  restored.  Plaster 
is  very  scarce  at  Vendome,  and  the  carriage  of  it 
makes  it  expensive.  Monsieur  de  Merret  had  there- 
fore ordered  an  ample  quantity  for  his  own  wants, 
knowing  that  he  could  readily  finds  buyers  for  what 
was  left.  This  circumstance  inspired  the  idea  that 
now  possessed  him. 

"  '  Monsieur,  Gorenflot  has  come,'  said  Rosalie. 

"  '  Bring  him  in,'  said  her  master. 

"  Madame  de  Merret  turned  slightly  pale  when  she 
saw  the  mason. 

"'Gorenflot,'  said  her  husband,  'fetch  some  bricks 
from  the  coach-house,  —  enough  to  wall  up  that  door ; 
use  the  plaster  that  was  left  over,  to  cover  the  wall.' 

"  Then  he  called  Rosalie  and  the  mason  to  the  end 
of  the  room,  and,  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  added, 
'  Listen  to  me,  Gorenflot ;  after  you  have  done  this  work 
you  will  sleep  in  the  house ;  and  to-morrow  morning 


La   Orande  Breteche.  261 

T  will  fcivo  you  a  passport  into  a  fonii^n  conntrv,  ami 
six  thousand  francs  for  the  journey,  (io  through  I'aris 
wliere  I  will  meet  you.  There,  I  will  secure  to  you 
legally  another  six  thousand  francs,  to  be  paid  to  you  at 
the  end  of  ten  years  if  you  still  remain  out  of  France. 
For  this  stun,  I  demand  absolute  silence  on  what  you 
sec  and  do  this  night.  As  for  you,  Rosalie,  I  give  you 
a  dowry  of  ten  thousand  francs,  on  condition  that 
you  marry  Gorenflot,  and  keep  silence,  if  not  — ' 

"'Rosalie,'  said  Madame  de  Merret,  'come  and 
brush  my  hair.' 

"  The  husband  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  watch- 
ing the  door,  the  mason,  and  his  wife,  but  without 
allowing  the  least  distrust  or  misgiving  to  appear  in 
his  manner.  Gorenflot's  work  made  some  noise  ;  un- 
der cover  of  it  Madame  de  ^Icrret  said  hastily  to 
Rosalie,  while  her  husband  was  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  room.  '  A  thousand  francs  annuity  if  you  tell 
Gorenflot  to  leave  a  crevice  at  the  bottom  ; '  then  aloud 
she  added,  composedly,  '  Go  and  help  the  mason.' 

"  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Merret  remained  silent 
during  the  whole  time  it  took  Gorenflot  to  wall  up  the 
door.  The  silence  was  intentional  on  the  part  of  the 
husband  to  deprive  his  wife  of  all  chance  of  saying 
words  with  a  double  meaning  which  might  be  heard 
within  the  closet ;  with  Madame  de  Merret  it  was 
either  prudence  or  pride. 


252  La   Grande  Breteche. 

"  When  the  wall  was  more  than  half  up,  the  mason's 
tool  broke  one  of  the  panes  of  glass  in  the  closet  door ; 
Monsieur  de  Merret's  back  was  at  that  moment  turned 
away.  The  action  proved  to  Madame  de  Merret  that 
Eosalie  had  spoken  to  the  mason.  In  that  one  instant 
she  saw  the  dark  face  of  a  man  with  black  hair  and 
fiery  eyes.  Before  her  husband  turned  the  poor  creat- 
ure had  time  to  make  a  sign  with  her  head  which 
meant  '  Hope.' 

"By  four  o'clock,  just  at  dawn,  for  it  was  in  the 
month  of  September,  the  work  was  done.  Monsieur  de 
Merret  remained  that  night  in  his  wife's  room.  The 
next  morning,  on  rising,  he  said,  carelessly :  '  Ah ! 
I  forgot,  I  must  go  to  the  mayor's  office  about  that 
passport.' 

"He  put  on  his  hat,  made  three  steps  to  the 
door,  then  checked  himself,  turned  back,  and  took  the 
crucifix. 

"  His  wife  trembled  with  joy  ;  '  He  will  go  to  Duvi- 
vier's,'  she  thought. 

"The  moment  her  husband  had  left  the  house  she 
rang  for  Rosalie.  'The  pick-axe!'  she  cried,  'the 
pick-axe !  I  watched  how  Gorenflot  did  it ;  we  shall 
have  time  to  make  a  hole  and  close  it  again.' 

"In  an  instant  Rosalie  had  brought  a  sort  of  cleaver, 
and  her  mistress,  with  a  fury  no  words  can  describe, 
began  to  demolish  the  wall.     She  had  knocked  away 


La  Grande  Brett  che.  258 

a  few  bricks,  and  was  drawing  back  to  strike  a  still 
more  vigorous  blow  with  all  her  strength,  when  sho 
saw  her  liusband  behind  her.     She  fainted. 

"'Put  niadanie  on  her  bed,' said  her  iuisband,  coldly. 

"Foreseeing  what  would  happen,  he  had  laid  this 
trap  for  his  wife  ;  he  had  written  to  the  mayor,  and 
sent  for  Duvivier.  The  jeweller  amved  just  as  the 
room  had  been  again  put  in  order. 

"  '  Duvivier,'  said  Monsieur  de  Mcrret,  '  I  think  you 
bought  some  crucifixes  of  those  Spanianls  who  were 
here  last  year?' 

"  '  No,  monsieur,  I  did  not.' 

"  '  Ver}*  good  ;  thank  you,'  he  said,  with  a  tigerish 
glance  at  his  wife.  '  Jean,'  he  adtled  to  the  footman, 
'  serve  my  meals  in  Madame  de  Merret's  bedroom  ;  she 
is  ver}'  ill,  and  I  sluiU  not  leave  her  till  she  recovers.' 

"For  twenty  days  that  rnan  remained  beside  his 
wife.  During  the  first  hours,  when  sounds  were  heard 
behind  the  walled  door,  and  Josephine  tried  to  implore 
mercy  for  the  dying  stranger,  he  answered,  without 
allowing  her  to  utter  a  word  :  — 

"  '  You  swore  upon  the  cross  that  no  one  was  there.' " 

As  the  tale  ended  the  women  rose  from  table,  and 
the  spell  under  which  Bianchon  had  held  them  was 
broken.  Nevertheless,  several  of  them  were  conscious 
of  a  cold  chill  as  they  recalled  the  last  words. 


TllK    PURSE. 


To    Sofka: 

Have  you  ever  remarked,  Mademoiselle,  that  when  the 
painters  and  sculptors  of  the  middle  ages  placed  two  fij^urea 
in  adoration  beside  some  glorious  saint  they  have  always 
given  them  a  filial  resemblance  ? 

When  you  see  your  name  among  those  dear  to  me,  under 
whose  protection  I  place  my  books,  remember  this  likeness 
and  you  will  find  here  not  so  much  a  homage  as  an  expression 
of  the  fraternal  affection  felt  for  you  by 

Your  servant,  De  Balzac. 

For  souls  easily  moved  to  joyous  feelings  there  comes 
a  delightful  moment  when  night  is  not  yet  and  day  is 
no  more  ;  the  twilight  casta  its  soft  tones  or  its  fantastic 
reflections  over  ever}thing,  and  inWtes  to  a  revery 
which  blends  vaguely  with  the  pla}-  of  light  and  shadow. 
The  silence  that  nearly  always  reigns  at  such  a  moment 
renders  it  particularly  dear  to  artists,  who  then  gather 
up  their  thoughts,  stand  back  a  little  from  their  crear 
tions,  at  which  they  can  sec  to  work  no  longer,  and 


256  The  Purse. 

judge  them  in  the  intoxication  of  a  subject  the  esoteric 
meaning  of  which  then  blazes  forth  to  the  inner  ej^es  of 
genius.  He  who  has  never  stood  pensive  beside  a  friend 
at  that  dream}',  poetic  moment  will  have  difficult}'  in 
comprehending  its  unspeakable  benefits.  Thanks  to 
the  half-light,  the  chiaroscuro,  all  the  material  de- 
ceptions employed  by  art  to  simulate  truth  disappear. 
If  a  picture  is  the  thing  concerned,  the  persons  it  repre- 
sents seem  to  speak  and  move  ;  the  shadow  is  reall}'^ 
shadow,  the  light  is  da}',  the  flesh  is  living,  the  eyes 
turn,  the  blood  flows  in  the  veins,  and  the  silks  shimmer. 
At  that  hour  illusion  reigns  unchallenged ;  perhaps  it 
onl}^  rises  at  night-fall !  Indeed,  illusion  is  to  thought 
a  sort  of  night  which  we  decorate  with  dreams.  Then 
it  is  that  she  spreads  her  wings  aud  bears  the  soul  to 
the  world  of  fantasy,  —  a  world  teeming  with  voluptuous 
caprices,  where  the  artist  forgets  the  actual  world,  for- 
gets yesterda}',  to-da}'^,  to-morrow,  all,  even  his  dis- 
tresses, the  happy  as  well  as  the  bitter  ones. 

At  that  magic  hour  a  young  painter,  a  man  of  talent, 
who  saw  nought  in  art  but  art  itself,  was  perched  on  a 
double  ladder  which  he  used  for  the  purpose  of  painting 
a  very  large  picture,  now  nearly  finished.  There,  criti- 
cising himself  and  admiring  himself  in  perfect  good 
faith,  he  was  lost  in  one  of  those  meditations  which  rav- 
ish the  soul,  enlarge  it,  caress  it,  and  console  it.  His 
revery  no  doubt  lasted  long.     Night  came.    Whether  he 


The  Purse.  2r,7 

tried  to  como  down  his  hiddiM-,  or  wliotln'r.  thinking  he 
was  on  the  ground,  he  imule  some  imprudent  movement, 
he  was  unal)lc  to  rcmeral)er,  but  at  any  rate  he  fell,  his 
head  struek  a  stool,  he  lost  consciousness  and  lay  for  a 
time,  but  how  long  he  did  not  know,  without  moving. 

A  soft  Voice  drew  him  from  the  sort  of  stui)or  in  which 
he  was  plunged.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  a  bright 
light  made  him  dose  them  again  ;  but  through  the  veil 
that  wrapped  his  senses  he  heard  the  murmur  of 
women's  voices,  ami  felt  two  young  and  timid  hands 
about  his  head.  He  soon  recovered  consciousness  and 
perceived,  by  the  light  of  one  of  those  old-fashioned 
lamps  called  "  double  air-currents,"  the  head  of  the 
loveliest  young  girl  he  had  ever  seen,  —  one  of  those 
heads  which  are  often  thought  artistic  fancies,  but  which 
for  him  suddenh'  realized  the  noble  ideal  which  each 
artist  creates  for  himself,  and  from  which  his  genius 
proceeds.  The  face  of  the  unknown  maiden  belonged, 
if  we  ma}'  say  so,  to  the  school  of  Prudhon,  and  it  also 
possessed  the  poetic  charm  which  Girodet  has  given  to 
his  imaginary  ^^sions.  The  delightful  coolness  of  tiie 
temples,  the  evenness  of  the  eyebrows,  the  purity  of 
the  outlines,  the  \'irginity  strongly  imprinted  on  that 
countenance,  made  the  young  girl  a  perfected  being. 

Her  clothes,  though  simple  and  neat,  bespoke  neither 
wealth  nor  povert\'.  When  the  painter  regained  pos- 
session of  himself,  he  expressed  his  admiration  in  a 

17 


258  The  Purse. 

look  of  surprise  as  he  stammered  his  thanks.  He  felt 
his  forehead  pressed  b}'  a  handkerchief,  and  he  recog- 
nized, in  spite  of  the  peculiar  odor  of  an  atelier,  the 
strong  fumes  of  hartshorn,  used,  no  doubt,  to  bring 
him  to  himself.  Next  he  noticed  an  old  lad}',  like  a 
countess  of  the  old  regime,  who  held  the  lamp 'and  was 
advising  her  companion. 

"  Monsieur,"  replied  the  j'oung  gu-1  to  one  of  the 
painter's  questions  asked  during  the  moment  when  he 
was  still  half-unconscious,  "  ray  mother  and  I  heard  the 
noise  of  j'our  fall  on  the  floor  and  we  thought  we  also 
heard  a  groan.  The  silence  which  succeeded  your  fall 
alarmed  us  and  we  hastened  to  come  up  to  you. 
Finding  the  kej-  in  the  door  we  fortunately'  ventured 
to  come  in.  We  found  you  lying  on  the  floor  uncon- 
scious. My  mother  obtained  what  was  necessary'  to 
bring  you  to  and  to  stanch  the  blood.  You  are  hurt 
in  the  forehead;  there,  do  you  feel  it?" 

"  Yes,  now  I  do,"  he  said. 

"It  is  a  mere  nothing,"  said  the  old  mother,  "  for- 
tunateh'  3'our  fall  was  broken  b}'  that  lay-figure." 

"I  feel  much  better,"  said  the  painter;  "all  I 
want  is  a  carriage  to  take  me  home.  The  porter  can 
fetch  it." 

He  tried  to  reiterate  his  thanks  to  the  two  ladies,  but 
at  ever}'  sentence  the  mother  interrupted  him,  saying : 
"To-morrow,    monsieur,    put    on    blisters    or    apply 


Tlie  Purse.  269 

leeches  ;  drink  n  few  cups  of  some  icstoriitivo  ;  tiike 
care  of  yourself,  —  fulls  are  dangerous." 

The  young  girl  glanced  shyly  at  the  painter,  and 
around  the  studio.  Her  look  anil  demeanor  were  those 
of  perfect  propriety,  and  lier  eyes  seemed  to  express, 
with  a  spontaneity  that  was  full  of  grace,  the  interest 
that  women  take  in  whatever  troubles  men.  These 
unknown  ladies  appeared  to  ignore  the  works  of  the 
painter  in  presence  of  the  sutlering  man.  When  he 
had  reassured  them  as  to  his  condition  they  left  the 
roou),  after  examining  him  with  a  solicitude  that  was 
devoid  of  either  exaggeration  or  familiarity,  and  with- 
out asking  any  indiscreet  questions,  or  seeking  to  in- 
spire him  with  a  wish  to  know  them.  Their  conduct 
was  marked  with  ever}-  sign  of  delicacy  and  good  taste. 
At  first  their  noble  and  simple  manners  produced  but 
little  etfect  upon  the  painter,  but  later,  when  he  recalled 
the  circumstances,  he  was  greatly  struck  by  them. 

Reaching  the  floor  below  that  on  which  the  studio 
was  situated,  the  old  lady  exclaimed,  gently,  "■  Ade- 
laide, you  left   the  door  open  !  " 

"  It  was  to  succor  me,"  replied  the  painter,  with  a 
smile  of  gratitude. 

"  Mamma,  you  came  down  just  now,"  said  the  young 
gill,  blushing. 

"  Shall  we  light  3-ou  down?  "  said  the  mother  to  the 
painter  ;  "  the  stairway  is  dark." 


260  The  Purse. 

"  Oh,  thank  yon,  madame,  but  I  feel  much  better." 

"  Hold  by  the  baluster." 

The  two  women  stood  on  the  landing  to  light  the 
young  man,  listening  to  the  sound  of  his  Steps. 

To  explain  all  that  made  this  scene  piquant  and  un- 
expected to  the  painter,  we  must  add  that  he  had  only 
lately  removed  his  studio  to  the  attic  of  this  house, 
which  stood  at  the  darkest  and  muddiest  part  of  the 
rue  de  Suresnes,  nearly  opposite  to  the  church  of  the 
Madeleine,  a  few  steps  from  his  apartments,  which 
were  in  the  rue  des  Champs  Elysees.  The  celebrity 
his  talent  had  won  for  him  made  him  dear  to  France, 
and  he  was  just  beginning  to  no  longer  feel  the  troubles 
of  want,  and  to  enjoy,  as  he  said,  his  last  miseries. 
Instead  of  going  to  his  work  in  a  studio  be^-ond  the 
ban'ier,  the  modest  price  of  which  had  hitherto  been  in 
keeping  with  the  modesty  of  his  earnings,  he  now  satis- 
fled  a  desire,  of  daily  growth,  to  avoid  the  long  walk 
and  the  loss  of  time  which  had  now  become  a  thing  of 
the  utmost  value. 

No  one  in  the  world  could  have  inspired  deeper  in- 
terest that  Hippolyte  Schinner,  if  he  had  onl}'  con- 
sented to  be  known  ;  but  he  was  not  one  of  those  who 
readily  confide  the  secrets  of  their  heart.  He  was  the 
idol  of  a  poor  mother  who  had  brought  him  up  at  a 
cost  of  stern  privations.  Mademoiselle  Schinner,  the 
daughter  of    an   Alsatian    farmer,    was   not    married. 


The    Punic.  261 

ITer  tciulor  soul  had  ouco  l)oon  cruelly  woiitnlcfl  by  a 
wealthy  man  who  boasted  of  little  delicacy  in  love. 
The  fatal  day  when,  in  the  glow  of  youth  and  boanty, 
in  the  glory  of  Ikt  life,  she  enihned  at  tlm  cost  of  all 
her  beautiful  illusions,  and  of  her  heart  itself,  the  dis- 
eneliantnient  which  comes  to  us  so  slowly  and  Act  so 
fast,  —  for  we  will  not  believe  in  evil  until  t<Jo  late,  and 
then  it  seems  to  come  too  rapidly, —  that  day  was  to  her 
a  whole  century  of  rellection,  and  it  was  also  a  day  of 
religious  thoughts  and  resignation.  She  refused  the 
alms  of  the  man  who  had  betra3'ed  her ;  she  renounced 
the  world,  and  made  an  honor  of  her  fault.  She  gave 
herself  up  to  maternal  love,  enjoying  in  exchange  for 
the  social  enjoyments  to  which  she  bad  bid  farewell, 
its  fullest  delights.  She  lived  l)y  her  labor,  and  fijund 
her  wealth  in  her  son  ;  and  the  day  came,  the  hour 
came  wliich  repaid  her  for  the  long,  slow  sacrifices  of 
her  indigence.  At  the  last  Exhibition  her  son  had  re- 
ceived tlie  cross  of  the  Legion  of  honor.  The  news- 
papers, unanimous  in  lavor  of  a  hitherto  ignored  talent, 
rang  with  praises  that  were  now  sincere.  Artists  them- 
selves recognized  Schinner  as  a  master,  and  the  dealers 
were  ready  to  cover  his  canvases  with  gold. 

At  twenty-five  years  of  age  Hippolyte  Schinner,  to 
whom  his  mother  had  transmitted  her  woman's  soul, 
fully  recognized  his  position  in  the  world.  ^Vishing  to 
give  his  mother  the  pleasures  that  society  had  so  long 


262  The  Purse. 

■withdrawn  from  her,  he  lived  for  her  on!}',  —  hoping 
to  see  her  some  da}-,  thi'ough  the  power  of  his  fame 
and  fortune,  happy,  rich,  respected,  and  surrounded 
by  celebrated  men. 

Schinner  had  therefore  chosen  his  friends  among  the 
most  honorable  and  distinguished  men  of  his  own  age. 
Hard  to  satisfy  in  his  choice,  he  wished  to  gain  a  posi- 
tion even  higher  than  that  his  talents  gave  him.  En- 
forcing him  to  live  in  solitude  (that  mother  of  great 
thoughts)  the  toil  to  which  he  had  vowed  himself  from 
his  youth  up  had  kept  him  true  to  the  noble  beliefs 
which  adorn  the  earlier  years  of  life.  His  adolescent 
soul  had  lost  none  of  the  many  forms  of  chastit}-  which 
make  a  young  man  a  being  apart,  a  being  whose  heart 
abounds  in  felicity,  in  poesy,  in  virgin  hopes,  —  feeble 
to  the  e^es  of  worn-out  men,  but  deep  because  they 
are  simple.  He  was  endowed  by  nature  with  the 
gentle,  courteous  manners,  which  are  those  of  the  heart, 
and  which  charm  even  those  who  are  not  able  to 
comprehend  them.  He  was  well  made.  His  voice, 
which  echoed  his  soul,  roused  noble  sentiments  in  the 
souls  of  others,  and  bore  testimony  by  a  certain  candor 
in  its  tones  to  his  innate  modesty.  Those  who  saw 
him  felt  drawn  to  him  b^-  one  of  those  moral  attrac- 
tions which,  happily,  scientific  men  cannot  analyze  ;  if 
they  could  they  would  find  some  phenomena  of  gal- 
vanism, or  the  flow  of  heaven  knows  what  fluid,   and 


The   Purge.  268 

formulate  our  feelings  in  proportions  of  oxygen  and 
electricity. 

These  details  may  pcrliai)n  oiili;^hton  persons  who  are 
bold  by  nature,  and  also  men  with  gw;d  cravats,  as  to 
wh}'  Ilippolyte  Schinner,  in  the  absence  of  the  |)ortor, 
whom  he  had  sent  to  the  nie  de  la  Madeleine  for  a  hack- 
ney-coach, did  not  ask  the  porter's  wife  any  question 
as  to  the  two  ladies  whose  kindness  of  heart  accident 
had  revealed  to  him.  But  though  he  answered  merel}* 
yes  or  no  to  the  questions,  natural  enough  under  the 
circumstances,  which  the  woman  put  to  him  on  his 
accident,  and  on  the  assistance  rendered  to  him  by  the 
occupants  of  the  fourth  floor,  he  could  not  prevent  her 
from  obeying  the  instincts  of  her  race.  She  spoke  of 
the  two  ladies  in  the  interests  of  hor  own  policy  and 
according  to  the  subterranean  judgment  of  a  porter's 
lodge. 

"  Ah ! "  she  said,  "that  must  have  been  Mademoi- 
selle Leseigneur  and  her  mother  ;  they  have  lived  here 
the  last  four  3ears.  We  can't  make  out  what  those 
ladies  do.  In  the  morning  (but  onl}-  till  twelve  o'clock) 
an  old  charwoman,  nearly  deaf,  and  who  does  n't  talk 
any  more  than  a  stone  wall,  comes  to  help  them  ;  in 
the  evening  two  or  three  old  gentlemen,  decorated,  like 
you,  monsieur,  —  one  of  them  keeps  a  carriage  and  ser- 
vants, and  people  do  say  he  has  sixty  thousand  franca 
a  year,  —  well,  they  spend  the  evening  here  and  oftea 


264  The  Purse. 

stay  very  late.  The  ladies  are  verj'  quiet  tenants,  like 
you,  monsieur ;  and  economical !  — they  live  on  nothing ; 
as  soon  as  they  get  a  letter  they  pa}'  their  rent.  It  is 
queer,  monsieur,  but  the  mother  has  n't  the  same  name 
as  the  daughter.  Ah  !  but  when  they  go  to  walk  in  the 
Tuileries  mademoiselle  is  dazzling,  and  often  young 
gentlemen  follow  her  home,  but  she  has  the  door  slmt 
in  their  faces,  —  and  she  is  right ;  for  the  proprietor 
would  never  allow  —  " 

The  coach  having  arrived,  Hippolyte  heard  no  more 
and  went  home.  His  mother,  to  whom  he  related  his 
adventure,  dressed  his  wound  and  would  not  let  him 
go  back  to  the  studio  the  next  da}'.  Consultation  was 
had,  divers  prescriptions  were  ordered,  and  Hippolyte 
was  kept  at  home  three  daj'S.  During  this  seclusion, 
his  unoccupied  imagination  recalled  to  him  in  vivid 
fragments  the  details  of  the  scene  that  followed  his 
swoon.  The  profile  of  the  young  girl  was  deeply  cut 
upon  the  shadowy  background  of  his  inner  sight ; 
again  he  saw  the  faded  face  of  the  mother  and  felt 
Adelaide's  soft  hands  ;  he  remembered  a  gesture  he  had 
scarcely  noticed  at  the  time,  but  now  its  exquisite  grace 
was  thrown  into  relief  by  memory  ;  then  an  attitude  or 
the  tones  of  a  melodious  voice,  made  more  melodious 
b}'  recollection,  suddenly  reappeared,  like  things  that 
are  thrown  to  the  bottom  of  a  river  and  return  to  the 
surface. 


The  Purse.  205 

So  the  first  day  on  which  hi?  was  fxlde  to  go  to  work 
he  went  early  to  his  studio ;  but  tlie  visit  which  he  hud, 
incontestably,  the  right  to  make  to  his  neighlKjrs  was 
the  real  reason  of  his  haste  ;  his  pictures  were  forgotten. 
The  moment  a  passion  bursts  its  swiiddlinj^'-clotlies  it 
finds  inexplicable  pleasures  known  only  to  those  who 
love.  Thus  there  are  persons  who  will  know  why  the 
painter  slowly  mounted  the  stairs  of  the  fourth  story  ; 
they  will  be  in  the  secret  of  those  rapid  pulsations  of  his 
heart  as  he  came  in  sight  of  the  brown  door  of  the  hum- 
ble apartments  occupied  by  Mademoiselle  Leseigneur. 
This  young  girl,  who  did  not  bear  the  same  name  as  her 
mother,  had  awakened  a  thousand  sympathies  in  the 
young  painter  ;  he  longed  to  find  in  her  certain  similari- 
ties of  position  to  his  own,  and  he  invested  her  with  the 
misfortunes  of  his  own  origin.  While  he  worked,  IIij> 
polyte  gave  himself,  complacentl}-,  to  thoughts  of  love, 
and  he  made  as  much  noise  as  he  could,  to  induce  the 
ladies  to  think  of  him  as  much  as  he  thought  of  them, 
lie  stayed  very  late  at  the  studio,  and  dined  there.  About 
seven  o'clock  he  went  down  to  call  on  his  neighbors. 

No  painter  of  manners  and  customs  has  dared  to 
initiate  us  —  restrained,  perhaps,  by  a  sense  of  pro- 
priety —  into  the  truh*  singular  interiors  of  certain 
Parisian  homes,  into  the  secret  of  those  dwellings 
whence  issue  such  fresh,  such  elegant  toilets,  women  so 
brilliant  on  tlie  outside  who  nevertheless  betray  signs 


266  The  Purse. 

of  an  equivocal  fortune.  If  the  painting  of  such  a  home 
is  here  too  frankly  drawn,  if  you  find  it  tedious,  do  not 
blame  the  description,  which  forms,  as  it  were,  an  integ- 
ral part  of  the  history  ;  for  the  aspect  of  the  apartments 
occupied  b}"  his  neighbors  had  a  great  influence  upon 
the  hopes  and  feelings  of  Hippoly^  Schinner. 

The  house  belonged  to  one  of  those  proprietors  in 
whom  there  is  a  pre-existent  horror  of  repairs  or  im- 
provements, —  one  of  the  men  who  consider  their  posi- 
tion as  house-owners  in  Paris  as  their  business  in  life. 
In  the  grand  chain  of  moral  species  such  men  hold  the 
middle  place  between  usurers  and  misers.  Optimists 
from  self-interest,  they  are  all  faithful  to  the  statu  quo 
of  Austria.  If  3'ou  mention  moving  a  cupboard  or  a 
door,  or  making  the  most  necessary  of  ventilators,  their 
e^'es  glitter,  their  bile  rises,  they  rear  like  a  frightened 
horse.  When  the  wind  has  knocked  over  a  chimney- 
pot they  fall  ill  of  it,  and  deprive  themselves  and  their 
families  of  an  evening  at  the  G3'mnase  or  the  Porte- 
Saint-Martin  to  pay  damages.  Hippolj'te,  who,  apropos 
of  certain  embellishments  he  wished  made  to  his  studio, 
had  enjoj'ed,  gratis,  the  pla3'ing  of  a  comic  scene  by 
Monsieur  Molineux,  the  proprietor,  was  not  at  all  sur- 
prised by  the  blackened,  soiled  colors,  the  oily  tints, 
the  spots,  and  other  disagreeable  accessories  which 
adorned  the  woodwork.  These  stigmata  of  poverty 
are  never  without  a  certain  poetry  to  an  artist. 


Tlie  Purse.  2<;7 

Maderaoisclle  Lcseigncur  herself  opened  llie  door. 
Recognizing  the  young  painU-r  xhe  liowi-d  lo  him ; 
then,  at  the  same  moment,  with  rarisiun  dexterity, 
and  that  presence  of  mind  which  pride  afl'ords,  she 
turned  and  shut  the  door  of  a  glazed  partition  through 
which  Hippolyte  might  have  seen  linen  hung  to  dry 
on  lines  above  a  cheap  stove,  an  old  tlock  bed,  coal, 
charcoal,  flatirons,  a  water-filter,  china  and  glass,  and 
all  utensils  necessary  to  a  small  household.  Muslin 
curtains,  that  were  sufllciently  clean,  carefully  con- 
cealed this  '' capharnaiim,"  —  a  word  then  familiarly 
applied  to  such  domestic  laboratories,  ill-lighted  by 
narrow  windows  opening  on  a  court. 

With  the  rapid  glance  of  an  artist  Hippolyte  had 
seen  the  furnishing,  the  character,  and  the  condition 
of  this  first  apartment,  which  was  in  fact  one  room 
cut  in  two.  The  respectable  half,  which  answered  the 
double  purpose  of  ante-chamber  and  dining-room,  was 
hung  with  an  old  yellow  paper,  and  a  velvet  border, 
manufactured  no  doubt  b\'  Reveillon,  the  holes  and 
the  spots  of  which  had  been  carefully  concealed  un- 
der wafers.  Engravings  representing  the  battles  of 
Alexander,  by  Lebrun,  in  tarnished  frames,  decorated 
the  walls  at  equal  distances.  In  the  centre  of  the 
room  was  a  massive  mahogany  table,  old-fashioned  in 
shape,  and  a  good  deal  rubbed  at  the  corners.  A 
small  stove,  with  a  straight  pipe  and  no  elbow,  hardly 


' 


268  TJie  Purse. 

seen,  stood  before  the  chimney,  the  fireplace  in  which 
was  turned  into  a  closet.  By  way  of  an  odd  contrast, 
the  chairs,  which  were  of  carved  mahogany,  showed 
the  relics  of  past  splendor,  but  the  red  leather  of  the 
seats,  the  gilt  nails,  and  the  gimps  showed  as  many 
wounds  as  an  old  sergeant  of  the  Imperial  Guard. 
This  room  served  as  a  museum  for  a  variety'  of  things 
that  are  only  found  in  certain  amphibious  households, 
unnameable  articles,  which  belong  both  to  luxur}'  and 
povertj'.  Among  them  Hippolyte  noticed  a  spy-glass, 
handsomely  ornamented,  which  hung  above  the  little 
greenish  mirror  on  the  mantel-shelf.  To  complete  the 
oddity  of  this  furniture,  a  shabb}^  sideboard  stood  be- 
tween the  chimney  and  the  partition,  made  of  common 
pine  painted  in  mahogany,  which  of  all  woods  is  least 
successfully  imitated.  But  the  red  and  slipper}-  floor, 
the  shabby  bits  of  carpet  before  the  chairs,  and  all  the 
furniture,  shone  with  the  careful  rubbing  which  gives 
its  own  lustre  to  old  things,  and  brings  out  all  the 
clearer  their  dilapidations,  their  age,  and  their  long 
service. 

The  room  gave  out  an  indefinable  odor  resulting  from 
the  exhalations  of  the  capharnaiim  mingled  with  the 
atmosphere  of  the  dining-room  and  that  of  the  stair- 
case, though  the  window  was  open  and  the  breeze  from 
the  street  stirred  the  cambric  curtains,  which  were 
carefully   arranged   to   hide   the   window-frame   where 


The  Purse,  2i;9 

preceding  tciiaiits  Iiad  nuirktd  lluir  prt'Hcncc  by  variouii 
curviiigs,  —  a  sort  of  domestic  frescoing. 

A<lt'l:iide  quickly  opened  the  door  of  the  next  room, 
into  wliieli  slic  ushered  tlie  painter  with  evident  pleas- 
ure. Ilippolyte,  who  had  seen  the  same  signs  of  pov- 
erty in  his  mother's  homo,  nolited  tlicm  uimv  with  that 
singular  keenness  of  iinpression  which  characterizes  the 
first  acfpiisitioiis  of  our  memory  ;  and  he  was  ahle  to  un- 
derstand, bettor  perha[)s  than  otliers  could  have  done, 
the  details  of  such  an  existence.  Recognizing  the  things 
of  his  childhood,  the  honest  young  fellow  felt  neither 
contempt  for  the  hidden  i)overty  before  him,  nor  pride 
in  the  luxury  he  had  lately  achieved  for  his  mother. 

''  Well,  monsieur,  I  h(>[)e  yi)U  arc  none  the  worse 
for  your  fall?"  said  the  mother,  rising  from  an  old- 
fashioned  sofa  at  the  corner  of  the  fireplace,  and 
olfering  him  a  chair. 

"No,  madame.  I  have  conic  to  thank  you  for  the 
good  care  you  gave  me  ;  and  especially  mademoiselle, 
who  heard  me  fall." 

While  making  this  speech,  full  of  the  adorable 
stupidity  which  the  first  agitations  of  a  true  love 
produce  in  the  soul,  Ilippolyte  looked  at  the  young 
girl.  Adelaide  lighted  the  lamp  with  the  double  cur- 
rent of  air,  no  doubt  for  the  purpose  of  suppressing  a 
tallow  candle  placed  in  a  large  pewter  candlestick  that 
w^as  covered  with  drippings  from  an   unusual  flow  of 


270  The  Purse. 

tallow.  She  bowed  slightl}',  placed  the  candlestick  on 
the  chimney-piece,  and  sat  down  near  her  mother,  a 
little  behind  the  painter,  so  as  to  look  at  him  at  her 
ease,  while  seemingly  engaged  in  making  the  lamp 
burn ;  for  the  feeble  flame  of  the  double  current,  affected 
b}'  the  dampness  of  the  tarnished  chimnej-,  sputtered 
and  struggled  with  an  ill-cut,  black  wick.  Observing 
the  mirror  above  the  mantel-shelf,  Hippol^'te  promptly 
looked  into  it  to  see  and  admire  Adelaide.  The  little 
scheme  of  the  young  girl  served  therefore  onlj-  to 
embarrass  them  both. 

While  talking  with  Madame  Leseigneur,  for  Hippolyte 
at  first  gave  her  that  name,  he  examined  the  salon,  but 
discreetl}^  and  with  propriety.  The  Eg3ptian  figures  of 
the  andirons  (made  of  iron)  could  scarcely  be  seen  on 
the  hearth  full  of  ashes,  where  two  small  sticks  of  wood 
were  trying  to  meet  each  other  in  front  of  an  imitation 
back-log  of  earthenware.  An  old  Aubusson  carpet, 
well-mended  and  much  faded  and  worn,  hardly  covered 
the  tiled  floor,  which  felt  cold  to  the  feet.  The  walls 
were  hung  with  a  reddish  paper  in  the  style  of  a  bro- 
cade with  bufl"  designs.  In  the  centre  of  the  partition 
opposite  to  the  windows  the  painter  observed  an  inden- 
tation and  cracks  in  the  paper,  made  by  the  two  doors 
of  a  folding-bed,  where  Madame  Leseigneur  doubtless 
slept,  and  which  was  only  partly  concealed  b}'  a  sofa 
placed  in  front  of  it.     Opposite  to  the  chimney,  and 


The    rurse.  -JTl 

above  a  chest  of  clniwcrs  in  nmlioi;:iny,  the  Htvlu  of 
which  was  liiuulsomc  ami  in  {^ood  UisU?,  was  the  porlruil 
of  an  olllccr  of  hi^li  rank,  which  the  poor  H^^ht  hardly 
enabled  the  painter  to  make  out ;  but,  from  what  h« 
could  see  of  it  the  thought  occurred  to  hini  that  the 
frijihtful  daub  must  have  been  painted  iu  China.  The 
red  silk  curtains  to  the  windows  were  faded,  like  tho 
coverings  of  the  furniture  in  this  salon  with  two  pur- 
poses. On  the  inarlile  top  of  the  chest  of  drawers  was 
a  valuable  tray  of  malachite,  holding  a  dozen  collee- 
cups,  exquisitely  painted,  and  made  no  doubt  at  Sevres. 
On  the  mantel-shelf  was  the  inevitable  Empire  clock,  a 
warrior  driving  the  four  horses  of  a  chariot,  the  twelve 
spokes  of  the  wheel  each  telling  an  hour.  The  wax 
tai)ers  in  the  candelabra  were  yellow  with  smoke,  and 
at  each  end  of  the  shelf  was  a  china  vase  filled  with  arti- 
ficial flowers  covered  with  ilust  and  mixed  with  mosses. 
Ilippolyte  noticed  a  card-table  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  laid  out  with  new  packs  of  cards.  To  an  ob- 
server there  was  something  indescribably  sad  in  this 
scene  of  poverty  decked  out  like  an  old  woman  who 
tries  to  give  the  lie  to  her  face.  Most  men  of  common- 
sense  would  have  secretly  and  immediatcl}-  formulated 
to  their  own  minds  a  problem :  were  these  women 
honor  and  uprightness  itself;  or  did  they  live  by  cards 
and  scheming?  But  the  sight  of  Adelaide  was  to  a 
young  man  as  pure  as  Schinner  the  proof  of  perfect 


272  The  Purse. 

innocence,  and  it  provided  the  incoherencies  of  the 
room  with  honorable  causes. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  old  lady  to  her  daughter,  "  I 
am  cold ;  make  us  a  little  fire,  and  give  me  my  shawl." 

Adelaide  went  into  an  adjoining  room,  where  no  doubt 
she  slept  herself,  and  returned,  bringing  her  mother  a 
cashmere  shawl  which  when  new  must  have  been  of 
great  value,  but  being  old,  faded,  and  full  of  darns,  it 
harmonized  with  the  furniture  of  the  room.  Madame 
Leseigneur  wrapped  it  artistically  about  her  with  the 
cleverness  of  an  old  woman  who  wishes  to  make  3011 
believe  in  the  truth  of  her  words.  The  3'oung  girl 
darted  into  the  capharnaiim,  and  reappeared  with  a 
handful  of  small  wood  which  she  threw  into  the  fire. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  write  down  the  conversation 
which  took  place  between  these  three  persons.  Guided 
by  the  tact  which  deprivations  and  trials  endured  in 
youth  nearly  alwaj^s  give  a  man,  Hippol^^te  did  not 
venture  on  the  slightest  allusion  to  the  position  of  his 
neighbors,  though  he  saw  all  around  him  the  signs  of 
an  ill-disguised  indigence.  The  simplest  question  would 
have  been  indiscreet,  and  permissible  onl^'  in  the  case 
of  an  old  friend.  And  jet  the  painter  was  deeply 
preoccupied  by  this  hidden  poverty  ;  his  generous  heart 
ached  for  it ;  knowing,  however,  that  all  kinds  of  pit}', 
even  the  most  sj'mpathetic,  may  be  offensive,  he  grew 
embarrassed  by  the  conflict  that  existed  between  his 


The  Pur  He.  273 

thoughts  and  liis  words.  Tlio  two  ladies  talked  first 
of  painting ;  for  women  readily  understand  the  secret 
embarrassnu'iits  of  a  first  visit;  perhaps  they  feel 
them,  and  the  nature  of  their  minds  gives  them  the 
art  of  overcoming  them.  I>v  (juestioning  the  yoinig 
man  on  matters  of  his  profession  and  his  studies 
Adelaide  and  her  mother  cmboMcMied  him  to  converse. 
The  little  nothings  of  their  courteous  and  lively  conver- 
sation soon  led  him  naturally  to  remarks  and  reflections 
which  showed  the  nature  of  his  habits  and  his  mind. 

Sorrows  had  prematurely  withered  the  face  of  the  old 
lady,  who  must  once  have  been  handsome,  though 
nothing  remained  of  her  good  looks  but  the  strong 
features  and  outlines,  —  in  other  words,  the  skeleton  of 
a  face  which  still  showed  infinite  delicacy  and  much 
charm  in  the  play  of  the  eyes,  which  possessed  a  cer- 
tain expression  peculiar  to  the  women  of  the  old  court, 
and  which  no  words  can  define.  These  delicate  and 
subtle  points  ma}',  however,  denote  an  evil  nature ; 
they  ma}"  mean  feminine  guile  and  cunning  raised  to 
their  highest  pitch  as  much  as  they  may,  on  the  other 
baud,  reveal  the  delicac}'  of  a  noble  soul.  In  fart,  the 
face  of  a  woman  is  embarrassing  to  all  commonplace 
observers,  inasmuch  as  the  difference  between  frankness 
and  duplicity,  between  the  genius  of  intrigue  and  the 
genius  of  the  heart  is,  to  such  observers,  imperceptible. 
A  man  endowed  with  a  penetrating  insight  can  guess 

18 


274  The  Purse. 

the  meaning  of  those  fleeting  tones  produced  "by  a  line 
more  or  less  curved,  a  dimple  more  or  less  deep,  a 
feature  more  or  less  rounded  or  prominent.  The  un- 
derstanding of  such  diagnostics  lies  entirelj'  Tvithin  the 
domain  of  intuition,  which  alone  can  discover  what 
others  are  seeking  to  hide.  The  face  of  this  old  lady 
was  like  the  apartment  she  occupied ;  it  seemed  as 
difficult  to  know  whether  the  penury  of  the  latter  cov- 
ered vices  or  integrit}-  as  to  decide  whether  Adelaide's 
mother  was  an  old  coquette  accustomed  to  weigh  and 
to  calculate  and  to  sell  ever^'thing,  or  a  loving  woman 
full  of  dignit}'  and  noble  qualities. 

But  at  Schinner's  age  the  first  impulse  of  the  heart  is 
to  believe  in  goodness.  So,  as  he  looked  at  Adelaide's 
noble  and  half-disdainful  brow,  and  into  her  eyes  that 
were  full  of  soul  and  of  thought,  he  breathed,  so  to 
speak,  the  sweet  and  modest  perfumes  of  virtue.  In 
the  middle  of  the  conversation  he  took  occasion  to  say 
something  about  portraits  in  general  that  he  might  have 
an  opportunity  to  examine  the  hideous  pastel  over  the 
chimne^'-piece,  the  colors  of  which  had  faded  and  in 
some  places  crumbled  off. 

"No  doubt  that  portrait  is  valuable  to  you,  ladies, 
on  account  of  its  resemblance,"  he  said,  looking  at 
Adelaide,  "for  the  drawing  is  horrible." 

"  It  was  done  in  China,  in  great  haste,"  said  the  old 
lady,  with  some  emotion. 


The  Purse.  27.') 

She  looked  up  at  the  inisorahlc  sketch  witli  tliat  sur- 
render to  feeling  whkli  the  memory  of  happiness  brings 
when  it  falls  upon  the  heart  like  a  blessed  dew,  to 
whose  cool  refreshment  we  delight  to  abandon  our- 
selves. Hut  in  that  old  face  thus  raised  there  wt-ro 
also  the  traces  of  an  eternal  grief.  At  least,  that  was 
how  the  painter  chose  to  interpret  the  attitude  and 
face  of  his  hostess,  beside  whom  he  now  seated  him- 
self. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  "before  long  the  colors  of  that 
pastel  will  have  faded  out.  The  portrait  will  then  ex- 
ist only  in  3'our  memory.  You  will  see  there  a  face 
that  is  dear  to  you,  but  which  no  one  else  will  be  able 
to  recognize.  Will  you  permit  me  to  cop3'  that  picture 
on  canvas?  It  will  be  far  more  durable  than  what  you 
have  there  on  paper.  Grant  me,  as  a  neighbor,  the 
pleasure  of  doing  3'ou  this  ser\'ice.  There  come  times 
when  an  artist  is  glad  to  rest  from  his  more  important 
compositions  by  taking  up  some  other  work,  and  it  will 
really  be  a  relief  to  me  to  paint  that  head." 

The  old  lady  quivered  as  she  heard  these  words,  and 
Ad«^laide  cast  upon  the  artist  a  thoughtful  glance  which 
seemed  like  a  gush  of  the  soul  itself.  Hippolyte  wished 
to  attach  himself  to  his  two  neighbors  by  some  tie,  and 
to  win  the  right  to  mingle  his  life  with  theirs.  His 
offer,  addressing  itself  to  the  deepest  affections  of  the 
heart,  was   the  only  one  it  was  possible  for  him   to 


276  The  Purse. 

make ;  it  satisfied  his  artist's  pride,  and  did  not  wound 
that  of  the  ladies.  Madame  Leseigneur  accepted  it 
without  either  eagerness  or  reluctance,  but  with  that 
consciousness  of  generous  souls,  who  know  the  extent 
of  the  obligations  such  acts  fasten  on  them,  and  who 
accept  them  as  proofs  of  respect,  and  as  testimonials 
to  their  honor. 

"I  think,"  said  the  painter,  "that  that  is  a  naval 
uniform  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "that  of  a  captain  in  the  navy. 
Monsieur  de  Eouville,  mj^  husband,  died  at  Batavia, 
in  consequence  of  wounds  received  in  a  fight  with  an 
English  vessel  which  he  met  off  the  coast  of  Asia. 
He  commanded  a  frigate  mounting  fift^'-six  guns,  but 
the  '  Revenge '  was  a  ninet3'-gun  ship.  The  battle 
was  unequal,  but  my  husband  maintained  it  bravel}' 
until  night,  under  cover  of  which  he  was  able  to  escape. 
When  I  returned  to  France,  Bonaparte  was  not  yet  in 
power,  and  I  was  refused  a  pension.  Lately,  when  I 
applied  for  one  again,  the  minister  told  me  harshly-  that 
if  the  Baron  de  Eouville  had  emigrated  I  should  not 
have  lost  him,  and  he  would  now  in  all  probability  be 
a  vice-admiral ;  his  Excellency  finally  refused  my  appli- 
cation under  some  law  of  forfeiture.  I  made  the  at- 
tempt, to  which  certain  friends  urged  me,  only  for  the 
sake  of  my  poor  Adelaide.  I  have  always  felt  a  repug- 
nance to  hold  out  m}^  hand  for  mone}'  on  the  ground  of 


TJie  Purse.  277 

a  sorrow  whiih  deprives  n  woman  of  her  voice  and 
her  strongtii.  I  do  not  like  these  valuations  of  I)1u<m1 
irreparably  shed." 

*' Dear  mother,  it  always  harms  you  to  tiilk  "ii  tliis 
subject" 

At  these  words  the  Baronne  Leseigneur  de  liouvillo 
bowed  her  head  and  said  no  more. 

''  Monsieur,"  said  the  young  girl  to  Ilippolyte,  "  I 
thought  that  the  occupation  of  a  painter  was  generally 
a  rather  quiet  one?" 

At  this  question  Schinncr  blushed,  recollecting  the 
noise  he  had  been  making  overhead.  Adelaiile  did 
not  finish  what  she  seemed  about  to  saj',  and  perhaps 
saved  him  from  telling  some  fib,  for  she  suddenly  rose 
at  the  sound  of  a  carriage  driving  up  to  the  door.  She 
went  into  her  room  and  returned  with  two  gilt  cande- 
labra filled  with  wax  tapers  which  she  quickly  lighted. 
Then,  without  waiting  for  the  bell  to  ring,  she  opened 
the  door  of  the  first  room  and  placed  the  lamp  on  the 
table.  The  sound  of  a  kiss  given  and  received  went  to 
the  depths  of  IIipix)Iyte's  heart.  The  impatience  of  the 
young  man  to  see  who  it  was  that  treated  Adelaide  so 
familiarly  was  not  very  quic^kl}-  relieved,  for  the  new 
arrivals  held  a  murmured  conversation  with  the  girl, 
which  he  thought  very  long. 

At  last,  however,  Mademoiselle  de  Rouville  reap- 
peared,  followed  by  two  men  whose  dress,  physiognomy, 


278  The  Purse. 

and  general  appearance  were  a  history  in  themselves. 
The  first,  who  was  about  sixty  years  of  age,  wore  one 
of  those  coats  invented,  I  believe,  for  Louis  XVIII., 
then  reigning,  in  which  the  most  difficult  of  all  vestuary 
problems  was  solved  b}'  the  genius  of  a  tailor  who  ought 
to  be  immortalized.  That  artist  knew,  not  a  doubt  of 
it !  the  art  of  transitions,  which  constituted  the  genius 
of  that  period,  politicall}'  so  fickle.  Surel}',  it  was  a  rare 
merit  to  know  how  to  judge,  as  that  tailor  did,  of  his 
epoch  !  This  coat,  which  the  3'oung  men  of  the  present 
day  may  consider  a  m3th,  was  neither  civil  nor  mili- 
tary, but  might  pass  at  a  pinch  for  either  military  or 
civil.  Embroidered  fleurs-de-lis  adorned  the  flaps  be- 
hind. The  gold  buttons  were  also  fleur-de-lised.  On 
the  shoulders,  two  unused  e3'elet-holes  awaited  the  use- 
less epaulets.  These  military  symptoms  were  there  like 
a  petition  without  a  backer.  The  buttonhole  of  the  old 
man  who  wore  this  coat  (of  the  color  called  "king's 
blue  ")  was  adorned  with  numberless  ribbons.  He  held, 
and  no  doubt  always  did  hold  in  his  hand  his  three- 
cornered  hat  with  gold  tassels,  for  the  snow}'  wings  of  his 
powdered  hair  showed  no  signs  of  the  pressure  of  that 
covering.  He  looked  to  be  no  more  than  fift}-,  and 
seem  to  enjoy  robust  health.  While  there  was  in  him 
every  sign  of  the  frank  and  loj^al  nature  of  the  old 
emigres,  his  appearance  denoted  also  easj^^  and  liber- 
tine habits,  —  the  gay  passions  and  the  careless  joviality 


TJie  Purnr.  279 

of  the  motisfjuetaires,  once  so  celebrated  in  tin-  imnala 
of  galliuitry.  His  gestures,  liis  bearing,  his  manners, 
all  proclaimed  that  he  did  not  inti-nd  to  change  his 
royalism,  nor  his  religion,  nor  his  mode  of  lifi-. 

A  trill}'  fantastic  figure  followed  this  gay  ''  voltiycur 
of  Louis  XIV."  (that  was  the  nickname  given  by  the 
lionapartists  to  these  relics  of  the  old  monarchy)  ;  but 
to  paint  it  properly  the  individual  himself  ought  to  be 
the  priuci[)al  fiuure  in  a  ijictmc  in  which  he  is  only 
an  accessory.  Imagine  a  thin  and  withered  personage, 
dressed  like  the  first  figure,  and  yet  onl}-  the  reflection 
or  the  shadow  of  it.  The  coat  was  new  on  the  back  of 
the  one,  and  old  and  fadi'(l  on  that  of  the  other.  The 
powder  in  the  hair  of  the  counterpart  seemed  less  white, 
the  gold  of  the  fleurs-de-lis  less  dazzling,  the  e3"elets 
more  vacant,  the  mind  weaker,  the  vital  strength  nearer 
its  termination,  than  in  the  other.  In  short,  he  realized 
that  saying  of  Rivarol  about  Champcenetz :  "He  is 
my  moonlight."  He  was  only  the  echo  of  the  other,  a 
faint,  dull  echo ;  between  the  two  there  was  all  the  dif- 
ference that  there  is  between  the  first  and  last  proof 
of  a  lithograph.  The  chevalier — for  he  was  a  chevalier 
—  said  nothing,  and  no  one  said  anything  to  him.  Was 
he  a  friend,  a  poor  relation,  a  man  who  stayed  by  the 
old  beau,  as  a  female  companion  by  an  old  woman? 
Was  he  a  mixture  of  dog,  parrot,  and  friend?  Had  he 
saved  the  fortune,  or  merely  the  life  of  his  benefactor? 


280  The  Purse. 

"Was  he  the  Trim  of  another  Uncle  Tob}'?  Elsewhere, 
as  well  as  at  Madame  de  Rouville's,  he  excited  curiosity. 
Who  was  there  under  the  Restoration  who  could  recol- 
lect an  attachment  before  the  Revolution  on  the  part  of 
the  Chevalier  to  his  friend's  wife,  now  dead  for  over 
twenty  years? 

Tlie  personage  who  seemed  to  be  the  less  ancient 
of  these  two  relics,  advanced  gallantly  to  the  Baronne 
de  Rouville,  kissed  her  hand,  and  seated  himself  beside 
her.  The  other  bowed  and  sat  beside  his  chief,  at  a 
distance  represented  by  two  chairs.  Adelaide  came  up 
and  put  her  elbows  on  the  back  of  the  chair  occupied 
by  the  old  gentleman,  imitating  unconsciously  the  atti- 
tude which  Guerin  has  given  to  Dido's  sister  in  his 
famous  picture.  Though  the  familiarity  of  the  old  gen- 
tleman was  that  of  a  father,  it  seemed  for  a  moment  to 
displease  her. 

"  What !  do  yoii  mean  to  pout  at  me?  "  he  said. 

Then  he  cast  one  of  those  oblique  glances  full  of 
shrewdness  and  perception  at  Schinner,  —  a  diplomatic 
glance,  the  expression  of  which  was  prudent  uneasi- 
ness, the  polite  curiosity  of  well-bred  people  who  seem 
to  ask  on  seeing  a  stranger,  "Is  he  one  of  us  ?  " 

"  This  is  our  neighbor,"  said  the  old  lady,  motioning 
to  Hippolyte.  "  Monsieur  is  the  celebrated  painter, 
whose  name  you  must  know  very  well  in  spite  of  your 
indifference  to  art." 


The   Purse.  2Hl 

The  gentlemnn  smiled  at  his  old  frii-nd's  tnisfhicvous 
omission  of  thr  iianu',  and  liowcd  to  the  yoiitij;  iiiuii. 

"  Yos,  indeed,"  he  said,  "■  I  have  heard  a  great  deal 
about  his  pictures  in  the  Salon.  Talent  has  many 
privileges,  monsieur,"  he  added,  glancing  at  the  artist's 
red  riblton.  "  That  distinction  which  we  acquire  at  the 
cost  of  our  blood  and  long  services,  you  obtain  young; 
but  all  glories  are  sisters,"  he  added,  touching  the  cross 
of  Saint-Louis  which  he  wore. 

IIippol3'te  stammered  a  few  words  of  thanks  and  re- 
tired into  silence,  content  to  admire  with  growing  en- 
thusiasm the  beautiful  head  of  the  young  girl  who 
charmed  him.  Soon  he  forgot  in  this  delightful  con- 
templation the  evident  poverty  of  her  home.  To  him, 
Adelaide's  face  detached  itself  from  a  luminous  back- 
ground. He  answered  briefly  all  questions  which  were 
addressed  to  him,  and  which  he  fortunately  heard, 
thanks  to  that  singular  faculty  of  the  soul  which  allows 
thought  to  run  double  at  times.  "Who  does  not  know 
what  it  is  to  continue  plunged  in  a  deep  meditixtion, 
pleasurable  or  sad,  to  listen  to  the  inward  voice,  and 
yet  give  attention  to  a  conversation  or  a  reading? 
Wonderful  dualism,  which  often  helps  us  to  endure  bores 
with  patience  !  Hope,  fruitful  and  smiling,  brought  him 
a  thousand  thoughts  of  happiness  ;  wliat  need  for  him 
to  dwell  on  things  about  him?  A  child  full  of  trust,  he 
thought  it  shameful  to  anal3ze  a  pleasure. 


282  The  Purse. 

After  a  certain  lapse  of  time  he  was  aware  that  the 
old  lady  and  her  daughter  were  playing  cards  with  the 
old  gentleman.  As  to  the  satellite,  he  stood  behind  his 
friend,  wholly  occupied  with  the  latter's  game,  answer- 
ing the  mute  questions  the  player  made  to  him  hy  little 
approving  grimaces  which  repeated  the  interrogative 
motions  of  the  other's  face. 

"  Du  Halga,  I  alwaj-s  lose,"  said  the  gentleman. 

"You  discard  too  carelessl}-,"  said  the  baroness. 

"It  is  three  months  since  I  have  been  able  to  win  a 
single  game,"  said  he. 

"  Monsieur  le  comte,  have  3'ou  aces?"  asked  the  old 
lady. 

"Yes,  mark  one,"  he  answered. 

"  Don't  3'ou  want  me  to  advise  3'ou?"  said  Adelaide. 

"  No,  no  ;  sta}'  there  in  front  of  me  !  It  would  double 
my  losses  if  I  could  n't  see  your  face." 

At  last  the  game  ended.  The  old  gentleman  drew 
out  his  purse  and  threw  two  louis  on  the  table,  not 
without  ill-humor.  "  Fort}'  francs,  as  true  as  gold!" 
said  he  ;  "  and,  the  deuce  !  it  is  eleven  o'clock." 

"  It  is  eleven  o'clock,"  repeated  the  mute  personage, 
looking  at  the  painter. 

The  young  man,  hearing  those  words  rather  more 
distinctly  than  the  others,  thought  it  was  time  to  with- 
draw. Returning  to  the  world  of  common  ideas,  he 
uttered  a  few  ordinary'  phrases,  bowed  to  the  baroness, 


The  Purse.  288 

lirr  (l;ui;4liUT.  and  the  two  gentlemen,  and  went  home, 
a  [n\'y  lu  tlic  liisL  juys  of  ti-iii'  luvi-,  wilhoiil  ti-\  iii^  l<> 
un:ily/,i'  tlie  liltli'  cvi-nt.s  of  tliis  c-vcninj;. 

Tlie  next  day  the  painter  was  possessed  with  the  most 
violent  desire  to  sec  Adelaide  again.  If  he  liad  listened 
to  his  passion  he  woiihl  have  gone  to  his  neighbors  on 
arriving  at  his  studio  at  six  o'elock  in  the  morning. 
But  he  still  kept  his  senses  siillieiently  to  wait  till  the 
afternoon.  As  soon,  however,  as  he  thought  he  could 
present  himself  he  went  down  and  rang  their  bell,  not 
without  mueh  palpitation  of  the  heart,  and  then,  blush- 
ing like  a  girl,  he  timidly  asked  Mademoiselle  Le- 
seigneur,  who  had  opened  the  door,  for  the  portrait  of 
Monsieur  de  Rouville. 

"  But  come  in,"  said  Adelaide,  who  had  no  doubt 
heard  his  step  on  the  stairway. 

The  painter  followed  her,  abashed  and  out  of  counte- 
nance, not  knowing  what  to  say,  —  so  stupid  did  his 
happiness  make  him.  To  see  Adelaide,  to  listen  to 
the  rustle  of  her  gown  after  longing  all  the  morning  to 
be  near  her,  after  jumping  up  a  dozen  times  and  saying, 
"  I  will  go  !  "  and  yet  not  daring  to  do  so,  —  this,  to  him, 
was  so  rich  and  full  a  life  that  such  emotions  if  too  pro- 
longed would  have  exhausted  his  soul.  The  heart  has 
the  singular  property  of  giving  an  extraordinary'  value 
to  nothings.  We  know  the  joy  a  traveller  feels  in 
gathering  the  twig  of  a  plant  or  a  leaf  unknown  to  him, 


284  The  Purse. 

when  he  has  risked  his  life  in  the  quest.  The  nothings 
of  love  are  precious  in  the  same  way. 

The  old  lady  was  not  in  the  salon.  When  the  young 
girl  found  herself  alone  with  the  painter  she  brought  a 
chair  and  stood  on  it  to  take  down  the  portrait;  but 
perceiving  that  she  could  not  unhook  it  without  stepping 
on  the  chest  of  drawers,  she  turned  to  Hippoljle  and 
said  to  him,  blushing :  — 

"  I  am  not  tall  enough.     Will  you  take  it  down?" 

A  feeling  of  modesty,  shown  in  the  expression  of  her 
face  and  the  accent  of  her  voice,  was  the  real  motive  of 
her  request ;  and  the  young  man,  so  understanding  it, 
gave  her  one  of  those  intelligent  glances  which  are  the 
sweetest  language  of  love.  Seeing  that  the  painter 
had  guessed  her  feeling,  Adelaide  lowered  her  eyes 
with  that  impulse  of  pride  which  belongs  onl}^  to  virgins. 
Not  finding  a  word  to  say  and  feeling  almost  intimi- 
dated, the  painter  took  down  the  picture,  examined  it 
gravely  in  the  light  from  the  window,  and  then  went 
away  without  saying  anything  more  to  Mademoiselle 
Leseigneur  than,  "  I  will  return  it  soon." 

Each  during  that  rapid  moment  felt  one  of  those 
mysterious,  violent  commotions  the  effects  of  which  in 
the  soul  can  be  compared  only  to  those  produced  by  a 
stone  when  flung  into  a  lake.  The  soft  expansions 
which  then  are  born  and  succeed  each  other,  indefinable, 
multiplying,  unending,  agitate  the  heart  as  the  rings  in 


The  Pane.  285 

the  water  widen  in  the  distance  from  the  centre  wlicre 
the  stone  fell. 

Hippolvte  returned  to  his  studio,  armed  with  the  j>or- 
trait.  His  easel  was  already  prepared  with  a  canvas, 
the  palette  was  set  with  its  colors,  the  brushes  cleaned, 
the  light  arranged.  Until  his  dinner-hour  he  worked 
at  the  picture  with  that  eagerness  whirh  artists  put  into 
their  caprices.  In  the  evening  he  again  went  to  Madame 
de  Rouville's  and  remained  from  nine  to  eleven.  Except 
for  the  different  topics  of  conversation,  this  evening  was 
very  like  its  predecessor.  The  old  men  arrived  at  the 
same  hour,  the  same  game  of  piquet  was  played,  the 
same  phrases  were  repeated,  and  the  sum  lost  by 
Adelaide's  old  friend  was  the  same  as  that  lost  the 
night  before, — the  onl}- change  being  that  Ilippolyte, 
grown  a  little  bolder,  ventured  to  talk  to  Adelaide. 

Eight  days  passed  in  this  waj',  during  which  the 
feelings  of  the  painter  and  those  of  the  30ung  girl 
underwent  those  delicious,  slow  transformations  which 
lead  young  souls  to  a  perfect  understanding.  So,  da\' 
by  da}',  Adelaide's  glance  as  she  welcomed  her  friend 
became  more  intimate,  more  trustful,  gayer,  and  more 
frank  ;  her  voice,  her  manners  grew  more  winning,  more 
familiar.  The}-  both  laughed  and  talked  and  communi- 
cated their  ideas  to  each  other,  talking  of  themselves 
with  the  naivete  of  two  children,  who  in  the  course  of 
one  da}'  can  make  acquaintance  as  if  they  had  lived 


286  The  Purse. 

together  for  three  years.  Schinner  wished  to  learn 
piquet.  Totally  ignorant  of  the  game  he  naturally 
made  blunder  after  blunder ;  and,  like  the  old  gentle- 
man, he  lost  nearly  every  game. 

Without  having  yet  told  their  love,  the  two  lovers 
knew  very  well  that  they  belonged  to  each  other. 
Hippolyte  delighted  in  exercising  his  power  over  his 
timid  friend.  Many  a  concession  was  made  to  him  by 
Adelaide,  who,  tender  and  devoted  as  she  was,  was 
easily  the  dupe  of  those  pretended  sulks  which  the 
least  intelligent  of  lovers,  and  the  most  artless  of 
maidens  invent,  and  constantly  emplo}',  just  as  spoilt 
children  take  advantage  of  the  power  their  mother's 
love  has  given  them.  For  instance,  all  familiarity  sud- 
denly ceased  between  the  old  count  and  Adelaide. 
The  young  girl  understood  the  painter's  gloom,  and 
the  thoughts  hidden  beneath  the  folds  of  his  brow, 
from  the  harsh  tone  of  the  exclamations  he  made  as 
the  old  man  unceremoniously  kissed  her  hands  or 
throat.  On  the  other  hand,  Mademoiselle  Leseigneur 
soon  began  to  hold  her  lover  to  a  strict  account  of 
his  slightest  actions.  She  was  so  uneasy  and  so  un- 
happy if  he  did  not  come  ;  she  knew  so  well  how  to 
scold  him  for  his  absence,  that  the  painter  renounced 
seeing  his  friends,  and  went  no  longer  into  society. 
Adelaide  showed  a  woman's  jealousy  on  discovering 
that  sometimes,   after  leaving  Madame  de  Rouville's 


TJie  Purge.  287 

at  eleven  o'clock,  the  painter  nmile  other  visits  and 
appeared  in  several  of  the  gayest  salons  of  I'aris. 
That  sort  of  life,  she  told  him,  was  very  bad  for  his 
health,  and  she  asserted,  with  the  profound  conviction 
to  which  the  tones,  the  gesture,  the  look  of  those  we 
love  give  such  immense  power,  that  "  a  man  who  was 
obliged  to  give  his  time  and  the  charms  of  his  mind  to 
several  women  at  once,  could  never  be  the  possessor  of 
a  reall}-  deep  affection." 

So  the  painter  was  soon  led,  as  much  b}-  the  despot- 
ism of  his  passion  as  bj-  the  exactions  of  a  young  girl, 
to  live  almost  wholly  in  the  little  homo  where  all  things 
pleased  him.  No  love  was  ever  purer  or  more  ardent. 
On  either  side  the  same  faith,  the  same  mind,  the  same 
delicac}',  made  their  passion  grow  apace  without  the 
help  of  those  sacrifices  b}'  which  so  many  persons 
seek  to  prove  their  love.  Between  these  lovers  there 
existed  so  constant  an  interchange  of  tender  feelings 
that  they  never  knew  who  gave  or  who  received  the 
most.  A  natural,  involuntary  inclination  made  the 
union  of  their  souls  close  indeed.  The  progress  of 
this  true  feeling  was  so  rapid  that  two  months  after 
the  accident  through  which  the  painter  obtained  the 
happiness  of  knowing  Adelaide,  their  lives  had  be- 
come one  and  the  same  life.  From  early  morning  the 
young  girl,  hearing  a  step  above  her,  said  to  herself, 
"He  is  there!"     When   Hippolyte  returned  home  to 


288  The  Purse. 

dine  with  his  mother  he  never  failed  to  stop  on  his 
way  to  greet  his  friends ;  and  in  the  evening  he  rushed 
to  them,  at  the  usual  liour,  with  a  lover's  punctuality. 
Thus  the  most  tyrannical  of  loving  women,  and  the 
heart  most  ambitious  of  love  could  have  found  no 
fault  with  the  young  painter.  Adelaide  did  indeed 
taste  an  unalloyed  and  boundless  happiness  in  finding 
realized  to  its  fullest  extent  the  ideal  of  which  youth 
dreams. 

The  old  gentleman  now  came  less  often  ;  the  jealous 
Hippolyte  took  his  place  in  the  evening  at  the  green 
table,  and  was  equally  unlucky  at  cards.  But  in  the 
midst  of  his  happiness,  he  thought  of  Madame  de 
RouviUe's  disastrous  position ,  —  for  he  had  seen  more 
than  one  sign  of  her  distress,  —  and  little  b}^  little  an 
importunate  thought  forced  its  way  into  his  mind. 
Several  times,  as  he  returned  home,  he  had  said  to 
himself,  "What!  twenty  francs  every  evening?" 
The  lover  dared  not  admit  a  suspicion.  He  spent 
two  months  on  the  portrait,  and  when  it  was  finished, 
varnished,  and  framed,  he  thought  it  one  of  his  best 
works.  Madame  de  Rouville  had  never  mentioned  it 
to  him ;  was  it  indifference  or  pride  which  kept  her 
silent?  The  painter  could  not  explain  it  to  himself. 
He  plotted  gayly  with  Adelaide  to  hang  the  picture 
in  its  right  place  when  Madame  de  Rouville  had  gone 
out  for  her  usual  walk  in  the  Tuileries. 


TJie  PurBe.  289 

The  day  came,  and  Ailt'hiido  went  up,  for  the  first 
time  alone,  to  Ilippolytc's  studio,  under  pretence  of 
seeing  the  portrait  fuvonihly  in  the  light  in  whieh  it 
was  painted.  She  stootl  before  it  silent  and  motion- 
less, in  a  delicious  contemplation  where  all  the  feelings 
of  womanhood  were  blended  into  one,  —  and  that  om  , 
boundless  admiration  for  the  man  she  loved.  Wlu-n 
the  painter,  uneasy  at  her  silence,  leaned  forward  to 
look  at  her,  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him  unable  to 
say  a  word ;  but  two  tears  dropped  from  her  eyes. 
Ilippolyte  took  that  hand  and  kissed  it,  and  for  a 
moment  they  looked  at  each  other  in  silence,  both 
wishing  to  avow  their  love,  neither  of  them  daring 
to.  As  the  painter  held  her  hand  within  his  own, 
an  equal  warmth,  an  equal  tlirob,  told  them  that  their 
hearts  were  beating  with  the  same  pulse.  Too  deeply 
moved,  the  young  girl  gently  left  her  lover's  side,  say- 
ing, with  a  guileless  look,  "  You  will  make  my  mother 
very  happy." 

"  Your  mother  —  onlj-  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  as  for  me,  I  am  too  happv,"  she  replied. 

The  painter  bent  his  head  and  was  silent,  frightened 
at  the  violence  of  the  feeling  the  tone  of  those  words 
awakened  in  his  heart.  Both  understood  the  danger 
of  their  position,  and  they  went  downstairs  with  the 
portrait  and  put  it  in  its  place.  That  night  Ilippolyte 
dined  for  the  first  time  with  the  baroness,  who  kissed 

19 


290  The  Purse. 

him  with  tearful  gratitude.  In  the  evening  the  old 
emigre,  a  former  comrade  of  the  Baron  de  Rouville, 
made  a  special  visit  to  his  two  friends  to  announce  his 
appointment  as  a  vice-admiral.  His  terrestrial  na^i- 
gations  across  Germany  and  Russia  had  been  credited 
to  him  as  naval  campaigns.  When  he  saw  the  portrait, 
he  shook  the  painter  by  the  hand,  exclaiming :  "  Faith ! 
though  my  old  carcass  is  not  worth  preserving,  I'd 
gladly  give  five  hundred  pistoles  for  anything  as  like  me 
as  that  Is  like  my  friend  Rouville." 

Hearing  the  proposal,  the  baroness  looked  at  her  friend 
with  a  smile,  and  let  the  signs  of  a  sudden  gratitude 
appear  on  her  face.  Hippolyte  fancied  that  the  old 
admiral  intended  to  pay  the  price  of  the  two  portraits 
in  pa^'ing  for  his  own ;  he  was  offended,  and  said 
stiffly,  "Monsieur,  if  I  were  a  portrait-painter  I  should 
not  have  painted  that  one." 

The  admiral  bit  his  lips  and  began  to  play.  The 
painter  sat  by  Adelaide,  who  proposed  him  six  kings 
which  he  accepted.  While  playing,  he  noticed  in 
Madame  de  Rouville  a  degree  of  eagerness  for  the 
game  which  surprised  him.  The  old  lady  had  never 
before  manifested  such  anxiety  to  win,  or  looked  with 
such  pleasure  at  the  admiral's  gold  coins.  During  that 
evening  suspicions  once  more  came  up  in  Hippolyte's 
mind  to  trouble  his  happiness  and  give  him  a  certain 
sense  of  distrust.     Did  Madame  de  Rouville  liv-e  by 


T}ic  Purse.  21  •! 

cards?  Was  she  playing  at  that  moment  to  pay  sonio 
debt,  or  was  she  (hivtu  to  it  by  some  necessity?  I'er- 
haps  her  rent  was  due.  That  old  man  seemed  too 
worldly-wise  to  let  her  win  his  money  for  nothing. 
What  interest  brought  him  to  that  poor  house,  —  he, 
a  riih  man?  Why,  though  formerly  so  familiar  with 
Adt-laide,  had  he  lately  renounced  all  familiarities,  — 
bis  right  perhaps  ?  These  involuntary  thouglits  promi)led 
Schinner  to  examine  the  old  man  and  the  baroness,  whose 
glances  of  intelligence  and  the  oblicjue  looks  they  cast 
on  Adelaide  and  himself  displeased  him  grcatl}". 

"  Can  it  be  that  they  deceive  me?" 

To  Ilippolyte  the  thought  was  horrible,  withering; 
and  he  believed  it  just  so  far  as  to  let  it  torture  hi  in. 
He  resolved  to  remain  after  the  departure  of  the  two 
old  men,  so  as  to  confirm  his  suspicions  or  get  rid  of 
them.  He  drew  out  his  purse  at  the  end  of  the  game, 
intending  to  pay  Adelaide,  but  his  mind  was  so  filled 
with  these  poignant  thoughts  that  he  laid  it  on  the  table 
and  fell  into  a  revcry  which  lasted  several  minutes. 
Then,  ashamed  of  his  silence,  he  rose,  answered  some 
commonplace  inquir3'  of  Madame  de  Rouville's,  going 
close  up  to  her  to  scrutinize  that  aged  face.  He  left 
the  salon  a  prey  to  dreadful  uncertainties.  After  going 
down  a  few  stairs,  he  recollected  his  purse  and  went 
back  to  get  it.     ''I  left  my  purse,"  he  said  to  Adelaide. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  coloring. 


292  The  Purse. 

"  I  thought  I  left  it  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
card-table. 

Ashamed  for  both  mother  and  daughter  at  not  finding 
it,  he  stood  looking  at  them  with  a  bewildered  air  which 
made  them  both  laugh  ;  then  he  turned  pale,  and  felt  in 
his  waistcoat  pockets,  stammering,  "I  am  mistaken, 
I  must  have  it  somewhere." 

At  one  end  of  the  purse  were  fifteen  louis,  at  the 
other  some  small  change.  The  robbery  was  so  flagrant, 
so  impudently  denied,  that  Hippolyte  had  no  doubt  as 
to  the  character  of  his  neighbors.  He  stood  still  on  the 
staircase,  for  he  could  hardly  go  down ;  his  legs  trem- 
bled, his  head  swam,  he  perspired,  his  teeth  chattered 
in  a  cold  chill,  and  he  was  literally  unable  to  walk  in 
the  grasp  of  that  cruel  convulsion  caused  by  the  over- 
throw of  all  his  hopes.  At  that  moment,  a  crowd  of 
apparently  trifling  circumstances  came  back  into  his 
mind,  all  corroborating  his  dreadful  suspicions ;  taken 
together  with  the  certainty  of  this  last  act,  they  opened 
his  eyes  to  the  character  and  the  life  of  the  two  women. 
Had  they  waited  till  the  portrait  was  done  to  steal  his 
purse?  Thus  combined  with  profit,  the  theft  seemed 
more  odious  than  at  first.  The  painter  remembered, 
with  anguish,  that  for  the  last  two  or  three  evenings 
Adelaide  had  examined,  with  what  seemed  girlish  curi- 
osit}',  the  netting  of  the  worn  silk,  probably  to  ascertain 
the  sum  contained  in  the  purse,  —  making  jests  that 


TJie  Purse.  293 

spomcd  innocent,  Imt  wore  no  (loiil)t  intondcd  to  covrr 
tlic  f:u't  tluit  she  was  watcliiiig  for  the  time  wlu-n  tin; 
purse  should  be  well  filled. 

"  The  old  admiral  must  have  good  reasons  for  not 
marrying  her,  and  the  baroness  intends  that  I  —  " 

He  stopped,  and  did  not  continue  the  thought,  for  it 
was  checked  by  one  more  just 

"  If,"  thought  he,  "  the  baroness  wished  me  to  njarry 
her  daughter  they  would  not  have  robbed  me." 

Then,  unable  to  renounce  his  illusions,  or  to  abandon 
a  love  so  deeply  rooted  in  his  being,  he  tried  to  find 
some  explanation.  "  My  purse  must  have  fallen  on  the 
ground ;  perhaps  it  was  under  my  chair ;  perhaps  I 
have  it,  I  am  so  absent-minded  !  "  He  felt  in  all  his 
pockets  with  rapid  motions,  —  but  no,  that  cursed  purse 
was  not  in  them.  His  cruel  memory  recalled  every 
particular  of  tlie  fatal  facts  ;  he  distinctly  saw  the  purse 
lying  on  the  table.  Unable  to  doubt  the  theft,  he  now 
excused  Adelaide,  saying  to  himself  that  no  one  ought 
to  judge  the  poor  and  unfortunate  too  hastily.  No 
doubt  there  was  some  secret  in  this  apparently  de- 
grading action.  He  would  not  allow  himself  to  believe 
that  that  proud,  noble  face  was  a  lie.  Nevertheless, 
that  miserable  apartment  had  now  lost  all  those  poesies 
of  love  which  once  embellished  it ;  he  saw  it  as  it  was, 
dirty  and  faded  ;  it  seemed  the  outward  likeness  of  an 
inward  life  without  nobleness,  unoccupied  and  vicious. 


294  Tlie  Purse. 

Are  not  our  feelings  written,  so  to  speak,  on  the  things 
about  us? 

The  next  morning  he  rose  without  having  slept. 
The  anguish  of  the  heart,  that  serious  moral  malady, 
had  made  great  strides  into  his  being.  To  lose  an 
imagined  happiness,  to  renounce  an  expected  future, 
is  far  more  bitter  suffering  than  that  caused  by  the 
ruin  of  an  experienced  joy,  however  great  that  joy 
may  have  been.  Is  not  hope  better  than  memory? 
The  meditations  into  which  our  souls  suddenly  fall 
are  then  like  a  shoreless  sea,  on  whose  bosom  we 
may  float  for  a  moment,  though  nothing  can  save 
our  love  from  sinking  and  perishing.  It  is  a  dreadful 
death.  Are  not  our  feelings  the  most  vivid  and  glori- 
ous part  of  our  lives?  From  such  partial  death  as 
this  come  those  great  ravages  seen  in  certain  organiza- 
tions that  are  both  delicate  and  strong,  when  assailed 
bj'  disillusions  or  hy  the  balking  of  hopes  and  passions. 
Thus  it  was  with  the  young  painter.  He  went  out 
earl}'  in  the  morning  and  walked  about  in  the  cool 
shade  of  the  Tuileries,  absorbed  in  thought,  and  taking 
no  notice  of  any  one.  There,  by  chance,  one  of  his 
young  friends  met  him,  a  college  and  atelier  comrade, 
with  whom  he  had  lived  as  with  a  brother. 

"  Wh}',  Hippolj'te,  what's  the  matter?"  said  Fran- 
9ois  Souchet,  a  3'oung  sculptor  who  had  just  obtained 
the  grand  prix  and  was  soon  going  to  Ital}^ 


Th,-   Pur»e.  296 

"  I  am  very  unhappy,"  replied  Ilipjwiyto.  {^mvoly. 

"  >iotlung  but  a  luvc-aHuir  cuu  make  you  ho.  Wealtli, 
fame,  consideration,  — you  have  everything  else  !  " 

Little  by  little,  the  confidences  began,  and  linally 
the  paint<'r  acknowledged  his  love.  When  he  spoke  of 
the  rue  de  Suresnes,  and  of  a  young  girl  living  on  the 
fourth  story,  "Halt!"  cried  Souchet,  gayly,  "that's 
a  little  girl  I  go  to  see  every  morning  at  the  Assumj^- 
tion ;  I  'm  courting  her.  Why,  m}'  dear  fellow,  we  all 
know  her.  Her  mother  is  a  baroness.  Do  you  believo 
in  baronesses  who  live  on  a  fourth  floor?  IJrrr !  Well, 
well !  3'ou  belong  to  the  age  of  gold.  The  rest  of  us 
meet  that  old  mother  every  day  in  the  Tuileries.  That 
face  of  hers,  and  the  way  she  carries  herself  tells  all. 
Come  now,  did  30U  never  guess  what  she  is,  from  the 
way  she  carries  her  bag  ?  " 

The  two  friends  walked  alwut  for  some  time,  and 
several  young  men  who  knew  Schinncr  and  Souchet 
joined  them.  The  painter's  love-affair  was  related  by 
the  sculptor,  who  supposed  it  of  little  importance. 

Many  were  the  outcries,  the  laughs,  the  jests,  inno- 
cent enough,  but  full  of  the  familiar  gayety  of  artists, 
and  horribly  painful  to  Hippolyte.  A  certain  chastity 
of  soul  made  him  suffer  at  the  sight  of  his  heart's  secret 
lightl}'  tossed  aI>out,  his  passion  torn  to  shreds,  the 
young  girl,  whose  life  had  seemed  to  him  so  mo<lest, 
judged,  truly  or  falsely,  with  such  careless  indifference. 


296  The  Purse. 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  have  you  never  seen  the 
baroness's  shawl?"  said  Souchet. 

"Don't  you  ever  follow  the  little  one  when  she 
goes  to  the  Assumption?"  said  Joseph  Bridau,  a 
young  art-student  in  Gros's  atelier. 

"Ha!  the  mother  has,  among  her  other  virtues,  a 
graj^  dress  which  I  regard  as  a  t3'pe,"  said  Bixiou,  the 
caricaturist. 

"  Listen,  Hippol3'te  ;  "  said  the  sculptor,  "  come  here 
at  four  o'clock,  and  analyze  the  demeanor  of  the  mother 
and  daughter.  If,  after  that,  you  have  any  doubts,  I 
give  3'OU  up,  —  nothing  can  ever  be  made  of  you ; 
you  '11  be  capable  of  marrying  3'our  porter's  daughter." 

The  painter  parted  from  his  friends  a  victim  to  a 
contradiction  of  feelings.  Adelaide  and  her  mother 
seemed  to  him  above  such  accusations,  and  at  the 
bottom  of  his  heart  he  felt  remorse  for  having  ever 
doubted  the  purity  of  that  young  girl,  so  beautiful 
and  so  simple.  He  went  to  his  studio,  he  passed  the 
door  of  the  room  where  she  was  sitting,  and  he  felt 
within  his  soul  the  anguish  that  no  man  ever  misun- 
derstands. He  loved  Mademoiselle  de  Rouville  so 
passionately  that,  in  spite  of  the  robbery  of  his  purse, 
he  adored  her  still.  His  love  was  like  that  of  the 
Chevalier  des  Grieux,  adoring  and  purifying  his  mis- 
tress in  his  thoughts  as  she  sat  in  the  cart  on  her  way 
to  the  prison  for  lost  women. 


TJie  Purge.  207 

"Why  should  not  my  love  make  hor  the  purest  of 
bcinfjs?  Shall  I  abfiiulon  her  to  sin  and  vico,  and 
stretch  no  friendly  hand  to  her?"  That  mission  pleased 
liiin.  Love  makes  profit  out  of  all.  Nothing  attracts  a 
young  man  so  much  as  the  thought  of  playing  the  part 
of  a  good  genius  to  a  woman.  There  is  sometiiing  truly 
chivalrous  in  such  an  enterprise  wiiich  conunends  itself 
to  lofty  souls.  Is  it  not  the  deepest  devotion  under  the 
highest  form,  and  the  most  gracious  form?  What 
grandeur  in  knowing  that  we  love  enough  to  love  still 
where  the  love  of  others  would  be  a  dead  thing  ! 

Hippolyte  sat  down  in  his  studio,  and  contemplated 
his  picture  without  touching  it.  Night  overtook  him  in 
that  attitude.  Wakened  from  his  revcry  b}-  the  dark- 
ness, he  went  downstairs,  met  the  old  admiral  on  the 
stairwa}-,  gave  him  a  gloomv  glance  and  a  bow,  and 
fled  awa}*.  He  had  meant  to  go  to  his  neighbors,  but 
the  sight  of  Adelaide's  protector  froze  his  heart  and 
overcame  his  resolution.  He  asked  himself,  for  the 
hundredth  time,  what  interest  it  could  be  that  brought 
that  old  beau,  a  man  worth  eighty-thousand  francs  a 
year,  to  that  fourth  story  where  he  lost  fort}-  francs  a 
night ;  that  interest,  he  fancied,  alas,  he  knew. 

The  next  day  and  the  following  days  Hippolyte  spent 
on  his  work,  tr3-ing  to  fight  his  passion  by  flinging  him- 
self into  the  rush  of  ideas  and  the  fire  of  conception. 
He  succeeded  only  partially.     Study  comforted   him, 


298  The  Purse. 

but  it  did  not  stifle  the  memorj-  of  those  dear  hours 
passed  with  Adelaide.  One  evening,  leaving  his  studio, 
he  found  the  door  of  the  apartments  of  the  two  ladies 
half-open.  Some  one  was  standing  in  the  recess  of  the 
window.  The  position  of  the  door  and  the  stairs  was 
such  that  Hippol3-te  could  not  pass  without  seeing 
Adelaide.  He  bowed  coldl}',  with  a  glance  of  indiffer- 
ence ;  then,  judging  of  her  sufferings  by  his  own,  an 
inward  tremor  overcame  him,  thinking  of  the  bitterness 
his  cold  glance  might  have  carried  to  a  loving  heart. 
"What !  end  the  sweetest  jo3's  that  ever  filled  two  sacred 
hearts,  with  the  scorn  of  an  eiglit  daj's'  absence,  with  a 
contempt  too  deep  for  words  ?  —  horrible  conclusion  ! 
Perhaps  that  purse  was  found  !  he  had  never  inquired  ; 
perhaps  Adelaide  had  expected  him,  in  vain,  every 
evening !  This  thought,  so  simple,  so  natural,  filled 
the  lover  with  fresh  remorse  ;  he  asked  himself  if  the 
proofs  of  attachment  the  young  girl  had  given  him,  if 
those  delightful  conversations  bearing  the  impress  of 
love  and  of  a  mind  which  charmed  him  did  not  deserve 
at  least  an  inquiry,  —  whether  indeed  the}^  were  not  a 
pledge  of  justification.  Ashamed  of  having  resisted 
the  longings  of  his  heart  for  one  whole  week,  thinking 
himself  almost  criminal  in  the  struggle,  he  went  that 
same  evening  to  Madame  de  Rouville's.  All  his  sus- 
picions, all  his  thoughts  of  evil  vanished  at  the  sight  of 
the  young  girl,  now  pale  and  thin. 


The  Purge.  299 

"Good  God!  what  is  the  matter?"  he  said  to  her, 
after  bowing  to  Madame  de  Kouviile. 

Adelaide  made  no  answer,  but  she  gave  him  a  sad, 
discouraged  look  which  went  to  his  heart. 

"  You  look  as  if  you  had  been  working  too  hard," 
said  the  old  lady.  "  You  are  changed.  I  fear  we  have 
been  the  cause  of  your  seclusion.  That  portrait  must 
have  delayed  other  work  more  important  for  your 
reputation." 

Hippolyte  was  only  too  happy  to  Cud  so  good  an 
excuse  for  his  absence.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  ''  I  have  been 
ver}'  busy  —  but  I  have  suffered  —  " 

At  these  words  Adelaide  raised  her  head ;  her  e3-e3 
no  longer  reproached  hira. 

"  You  have,  then,  thought  us  indifferent  to  what 
makes  you  happy  or  unhappy?  "  said  the  old  lady. 

"  I  have  done  wrong,"  he  said.  "  And  yet  there  are 
sufferings  which  we  can  tell  to  no  one,  no  matter  who 
it  is,  even  to  a  heart  that  may  have  known  us  long." 

"  The  sincerity  and  the  strength  of  friendship  ought 
not  to  be  measured  by  time.  I  have  seen  old  friends 
who  could  not  shed  a  tear  for  each  other's  misfortune," 
said  the  baroness,  nodding  her  head. 

"  But  tell  me,  what  is  the  matter?"  asked  Hippolyte 
of  the  poor  girl. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  the  baroness;  "Adelaide  in- 
sisted on  sitting  up  two  or  three  nights  to  finish  a  piece 


300  The  Purse. 

of  work ;  she  would  not  listen  to  me  when  I  told  her 
that  a  day  more  or  less  could  make  no  difference  —  " 

Hippolyte  was  not  listening.  Seeing  those  two  faces, 
so  calm,  so  noble,  he  blushed  for  his  suspicions  and 
attributed  the  loss  of  the  purse  to  some  mysterious 
accident.  That  evening  was  delightful  to  him,  and 
perhaps  to  her.  There  are  secrets  that  young  souls 
understand  so  well.  Adelaide  divined  her  lover's 
thoughts.  "Without  intending  to  reveal  his  wrong- 
doing, Hippolyte  tacitl}-  admitted  it ;  he  returned  to 
his  mistress  more  loving,  more  affectionate  than  ever, 
as  if  to  buy  a  silent  pardon.  Adelaide  now  tasted  joys 
so  sweet,  so  perfect,  that  the  pangs  which  had  cruelly 
bruised  her  spirit  seemed  but  a  slight  penalty  to  pay 
for  them.  And  yet  that  absolute  accord  between  their 
hearts,  that  comprehension  which  was  full  of  magic, 
was  clouded  suddenly  by  a  little  speech  of  Madame  de 
Rouville's.  "  Let  us  get  ready  for  our  game,"  she 
said.     "  My  old  Kergarouet  insists  upon  it." 

That  speech  roused  all  tiie  poor  painter's  fears  ;  he 
blushed  as  he  looked  at  Adelaide's  mother.  Yet  he 
could  see  on  that  face  no  other  expression  than  one  of 
a  true  kind-heartedness  without  insincerity ;  no  latent 
thought  destroyed  its  charm ;  in  its  shrewdness  there 
was  no  perfidy ;  the  gentle  satire  it  expressed  seemed 
tender,  and  no  remorse  marred  its  placidity.  So  he  sat 
down  at  the  card-table.     Adelaide  shared   his   game, 


The  Purse.  301 

pretending  that  he  did  not  know  piquet  and  needed  an 
adviser.  While  they  phiyed,  signs  of  an  understand- 
ing passed  between  the  mother  and  daughter  wliieh 
again  made  Ilippolytc  anxious,  —  all  the  more  because, 
for  once,  he  was  winning.  At  last,  however,  a  lucky 
throw  put  the  lovers  in  Madame  de  Kouville's  debt. 
Hippolytc  withdrew  his  hands  from  the  table  to  search 
for  money  in  his  pockets,  and  suddenly  saw  lying 
before  him  a  purse  which  Adelaide  had  slipped  tiiere 
without  his  noticing  her ;  the  poor  child  held  his  own 
purse  in  her  hand,  and  was  hiding  her  confusion  by 
pretending  to  look  for  money  to  pay  her  mother.  The 
blood  rushed  so  violently  to  Hippolyte's  heart  that  he 
almost  lost  consciousness.  The  new  purse  substituted 
for  the  old  one  bad  the  fifteen  louis  in  it,  and  was 
worked  with  gold  beads.  The  rings,  the  tassels,  all 
proved  the  good  taste  of  the  maker,  who  had  no  doubt 
spent  bar  little  savings  on  those  ornaments  of  her  pretty 
work.  It  was  impossible  to  sa}*  with  greater  delicacy 
that  the  painter's  gift  could  be  acknowledged  only  by  a 
pledge  of  tenderness. 

"When  Ilippolyte,  overcome  with  happiness,  turned 
his  eyes  on  Adelaide  and  her  mother  he  saw  them 
trembling  with  pleasure,  happ}'  in  the  success  of  their 
little  fraud.  He  felt  himself  small,  petty,  contemptible  ; 
he  longed  to  punish  himself,  to  rend  his  heart.  Tears 
came  into  his  eyes,  and  he  sprang  up  with  an  irresistible 


302  The  Purse. 

impulse,  took  Adelaide  in  his  arms,  pressed  her  to  his 
heart,  snatched  a  kiss,  and  cried,  with  the  honest  good- 
faith  of  an  artist,  looking  straight  at  the  baroness ;  — 
"  I  ask  you  to  give  her  to  me  for  my  wife  !  " 
Adelaide's  eyes  as  she  looked  at  him  were  half-angr}', 
and  Madame  de  Rouville,  somewhat  astonished,  was 
seeking  a  repl}'  when  the  scene  was  interrupted  b}'  a 
ring  at  the  bell.  The  vice-admiral  appeared,  followed 
b}'  Madame  Schinner.  After  guessing  the  cause  of  her 
son's  grief,  which  he  had  vainly  tried  to  hide  from 
her,  Hippolj'te's  mother  had  made  inquiries  among  her 
friends  as  to  Adelaide.  Alarmed  by  the  calumnies 
which  assailed  the  young  girl,  unknown  to  the  old  ad- 
miral, the  Comte  de  Kergarouet,  she  went  to  the  latter 
and  told  him  what  she  had  heard.  In  his  ftuy  he  wanted, 
he  said,  "  to  cut  the  ears  of  those  rascals."  Excited  hy 
his  wrath  he  told  Madame  Schinner  the  secret  of  his 
visits  and  his  intentional  losses  at  cards,  that  being  the 
cnl}'  way  in  which  the  baroness's  pride  gave  him  a 
chance  to  succor  the  widow  of  his  old  friend. 

When  Madame  Schinner  had  paid  her  respects  to 
Madame  de  Rouville,  the  latter  looked  at  the  Comte  de 
Kergarouet,  the  Chevalier  du  Halga  (the  former  friend 
of  the  late  Comtesse  de  Kergarouet) ,  then  at  Hippolyte 
and  Adelaide,  and  said,  with  the  delightful  manners  of 
the  heart,  "  We  seem,  I  think,  to  be  a  family  party." 


LA   GRENADlfillE. 


TO    CAROLINE. 

To    TUE     POESY    OK      HIS    JoiRXET. 

A  Grati'ful  Tracellrr. 

La  Grenadi^re  is  a  little  ha])ilatlon  on  the  right 
bank  of  the  Loire,  sloping  towards  it  and  about  a 
mile  from  the  bridge  of  Tours.  Just  here  the  river, 
broad  as  a  lake,  is  strewn  with  green  islets,  and  mar- 
gined b}-  rocky  shores,  on  which  are  numerous  countrj'- 
houses.  all  built  of  white  stone  and  surrounded  by 
vineyards  and  gardens,  in  which  the  finest  fruits  in 
the  world  ripen  under  a  sunny  exposure.  Industri- 
ously terraced  bj*  generation  after  generation,  the  hol- 
lows of  the  rock  reflect  the  rays  of  the  sun,  and  the 
artificial  temperature  thus  produced  allows  the  culti- 
vation of  the  products  of  hot  climates  in  the  open 
ground. 

From  one  of  the  least  sunken  of  these  hollows  which 
cut  into  the  hillside,  rises  the  sharp  steeple  of  Saint- 
Cyr,  a  little  village  to  which  the  scattered  houses  nomi- 
nallj'  belong.     A  little  beyond,  the  Choisille  falls  into 


304  La   Grenadiere. 

the  Loire,  through  a  rich  valley  which  runs  up  among 
the  hills.  La  Grenadiere  [The  Pomegranate],  standing 
half-way  up  the  rocky  shore,  about  three  hundred  feet 
from  the  church,  is  one  of  those  venerable  homesteads 
some  two  or  three  hundred  years  old,  •which  are  seen 
in  every  lovely  situation  in  Touraine.  A  cleft  in  the 
rock  has  facilitated  the  making  of  a  stairway,  which 
descends  by  easy  steps  to  the  "lev^e," — the  local  name 
given  to  the  dike  built  at  the  base  of  the  slope  to  keep 
the  Loire  to  its  bed,  and  along  which  runs  the  mail 
road  from  Paris  to  Nantes. 

At  the  top  of  this  flight  of  steps  is  a  gate  opening  on 
a  narrow,  stony  road,  cut  between  two  terraces  which 
resemble  fortifications,  covered  with  vines  and  palings 
to  prevent  the  rolling  down  of  the  earth.  This  path- 
way, starting  from  the  foot  of  the  upper  terrace,  and 
nearlj'  hidden  by  the  trees  that  crown  it,  leads  to  the 
house  by  a  steep  pitch,  giving  a  view  of  the  river  which 
enlarges  at  every  step.  This  sunken  path  ends  at  a 
second  gate,  gothic  in  character,  arched,  and  bearing 
a  few  simple  ornaments,  which  is  now  in  ruins  and 
overgrown  with  gilli-flowers,  ivy,  mosses,  and  pellitory. 
These  ineradicable  plants  decorate  the  walls  of  all  the 
terraces,  hanging  from  the  clefts  of  the  stone  courses 
and  designating  each  season  by  a  garland  of  its  own 
flowers. 

Be3'ond   this  mould}'  gate  a  little  garden,  wrested 


La   G  renailiCre.  305 

from  tlio  rock  by  nnotlior  terrftce,  with  an  oM  and 
bhu-ki-ncil  balustrade  whieli  overlooks  iIh!  rest,  pre- 
sents a  lawn  adorned  bs'  a  few  trees,  and  a  inullitudo 
of  roses  and  other  llowerinLi  plants.  Opposite  to  the 
gate,  at  the  other  end  of  the  terrace,  is  a  wooden 
pavilion  resting^  against  a  neijjhboring  wall,  the  posts 
of  which  are  hidden  under  jasmine,  honeysuckle,  vines, 
and  clematis.  In  llie  middle  of  the  garden  stands  the 
house,  beyond  a  vaulted  portico  covered  with  vines,  on 
which  is  the  gate  of  a  huge  cellar  hollowed  in  the  rock. 
The  house  is  surrounded  with  vine-clad  arbors,  and 
pomegranate-trees  —  which  give  their  name  to  the  place, 
—  are  growing  in  the  open  ground.  The  fa(;ade  has 
two  large  windows  separated  by  n  very  countrified  front- 
door, and  three  attic  windows,  placed  very  high  up 
in  the  roof  relatively  to  the  low  height  of  the  ground 
floor.  This  roof  has  two  gables  and  is  covered  with 
slate.  The  walls  of  the  main  building  are  painted 
j-ellow,  and  the  door,  the  shutters  on  the  lower  floor, 
and  the  blinds  on  the  roof  arc  green. 

When  you  enter  the  house,  you  find  a  little  hall-way 
with  a  winding  staircase,  the  grade  of  which  changes 
at  every  turn  ;  the  wood  is  rotten,  and  the  balusters, 
turning  like  a  screw,  are  discolored  by  long  usage. 
To  the  right  of  the  door  is  a  vast  dining-room  with 
antique  panelling,  floored  in  white  tiles,  manufactured 
at  Chaleau-Kegnault ;  on  the  left  is  the  salon,  a  room 

20 


306  La   Grrenadiere. 

of  the  same  size,  but  without  panels,  hung  with  a  gold- 
colored  paper  with  green  bordering.  Neither  of  the 
two  rooms  has  a  plastered  ceiling.  The  joists  are  of 
walnut,  and  the  spaces  are  filled  in  with  a  natural 
white  clay  mixed  with  hair.  On  he  first  floor  are 
two  large  chambers  with  white-washed  walls ;  the  stoue 
chimney-pieces  in  these  rooms  are  less  richly  carved 
than  those  in  the  rooms  below.  All  the  windows  face 
south.  To  the  north  there  is  onl^'  a  door  opening  be- 
hind the  staircase  on  a  vineyard.  m] 

On  the  left  of  the  house,  a  building  with  a  wooden 
front  backs  against  the  wall ;  the  wood  being  protected 
from  the  sun  and  rain  by  slates  which  lie  in  long  blue 
lines,  upright  and  transversal,  upon  the  walls.  The 
kitchen,  consigned  as  it  were  to  this  cottage,  commu-  i 
nicates  with  the  house,  but  it  has  an  entrance  of  its 
own  raised  from  the  ground  by  a  few  steps,  near  to 
which  is  a  deep  well  covered  with  a  rustic  pump ; 
its  sides  overgrown  with  water-plants  and  taU  grass 
and  juniper.  This  recent  construction  proves  that 
La  Grenadiere  was  originally  a  mere  vendangeoir^ 
where  the  owners,  living  in  the  city  (from  which  it  is 
separated  only  by  the  broad  bed  of  the  Loire),  came  ; 
only  to  attend  to  their  vintages,  or  to  bring  parties  of 
pleasure.  On  such  occasions  they  sent  provisions  for  ; 
the  day,  and  slept  there  at  night  onl}^  when  the  grapes 
were  being  gathered. 


La   Grenadiere.  307 

But  the  English  have  fulh-ii  hkc  a  Hwarin  of 
grass-hoppers  upon  Touraine,  and  Lu  Grenadicn-  was 
furnished  with  a  kitehcn  that  they  might  hire  it. 
Fortunately  this  modern  appendage  is  concealed  by 
the  first  lindens  planted  along  a  path  running  down 
a  ravine  behind  the  orchard.  The  vineyard,  of  about 
two  acres,  rises  above  the  house,  and  overlooks  it 
on  a  slope  so  steep  that  it  is  very  dillieult  to  climb. 
Between  the  back  of  the  house  and  this  hill,  green 
with  trailing  shoots,  is  a  narrow  space  of  not  more 
than  five  feet,  always  cold  and  damp,  a  sort  of  ditch 
full  of  rampant  vegetation,  and  filled  in  rainy  weather 
with  the  drainage  from  the  vineyard,  used  to  enrich 
the  soil  of  the  flower-beds  of  the  terrace  with  the 
balustrade. 

The  little  house  of  the  vine-dresser  backs  against  the 
left  gable ;  it  has  a  thatched  roof  and  makes  a  sort  of 
pendant  to  the  kitchen.  The  whole  property  is  enclosed 
by  walls  and  palings  ;  the  orchard  is  planted  with  fruit- 
trees  of  all  kinds  ;  in  short,  not  an  inch  of  the  precious 
soil  is  lost  to  cultivation.  If  man  neglects  an  arid 
corner  of  this  rock.  Nature  flings  into  it  a  fig-tree 
perhaps,  or  wild-flowers,  or  a  few  strawberry-vines 
sheltered  among  the  stones. 

Nowhere  in  the  world  can  you  find  a  home  so  modest, 
yet  so  grand,  so  rich  in  products,  in  fragrance,  and 
in  outlook.     It  is  in  the   heart  of  Touraine,  a   little 


308  La  Grenadiere. 

Touraine  in  itself,  where  all  the  flowers,  all  the  fruits, 
all  the  beauties  of  that  region  are  full}'  represented. 
There  are  the  grapes  of  ever}^  clime,  the  figs,  the 
peaches,  the  pears  of  every  species,  melons  growing 
wild  in  the  open  ground,  as  well  as  liquorice,  the  yellow 
broom  of  Spain,  the  oleanders  of  Italy,  the  jasmine  of 
the  Azores.  The  Loire  flows  at  3'our  feet.  You  look 
down  upon  it  from  a  terrace  raised  thirty  fathom  above 
its  capricious  waters.  You  inhale  its  breezes  coming 
fresh  from  the  sea  and  perfumed  on  their  waj'  by  the 
flowers  along  its  shores.  A  wandering  cloud,  which 
changes  at  every  instant  its  color  and  its  form  as  it 
moves  in  space  beneath  the  cloudless  blue  of  heaven, 
gives  a  thousand  varied  aspects  to  each  detail  of  that 
glorious  scener}'  which  meets  the  eye  wherever  turned. 
From  there,  3'ou  may  see  the  river  shores  from  Amboise, 
the  fertile  plain  where  rises  Tours,  its  suburbs,  its  manu- 
factories, and  Le  Plessis  ;  also  a  portion  of  the  left  bank, 
from  Vouvra}^  to  Saint-Sj'mphorien,  describing  a  half- 
circle  of  smiling  vineyards.  The  view  here  is  limited 
only  by  the  rich  slopes  of  Cher,  a  blue  horizon  broken 
by  parks  and  villas.  To  the  west  the  soul  is  lost  in 
contemplation  of  the  broad  sheet  of  waters  which  bears 
upon  its  bosom,  at  all  hours,  vessels  with  white  sails 
filled  with  the  winds  which  ever  sweep  its  vast  basin. 

A  prince  might   make    La   Grenadiere  his  villa ;    a 
poet  would  make  it  his  home ;  lovers  would  count  it 


La   Orenadlere.  809 

their  sweetest  refuge  ;  a  worthy  burgher  of  Tour«  might 
live  there,  —  the  spot  has  poems  for  all  iuiaginntions. 
for  the  humblest,  for  the  coldest,  as  for  the  highest  and 
the  most  fervent ;  no  one  ever  stayed  there  without 
breathing  an  atmosphere  of  happiness,  without  compre- 
hending a  tranquil  life  devoid  of  ambition,  relieved  of 
care.  Kevery  is  in  the  air,  in  the  murmuring  flow  of 
waters ;  the  sands  speak,  they  are  sad  or  gay,  golden 
or  sullied  ;  all  is  in  motion  around  the  possessor  of  this 
spot,  motionless  amid  its  ever-blooming  flowers  and  its 
toothsome  fruits.  An  Englishman  gives  a  thousand 
francs  merely  to  live  six  months  in  that  humble  dwel- 
ling, and  he  binds  himself  to  gather  no  products  ;  if  he 
wants  the  fruits,  he  pays  a  double  rent ;  if  the  wine 
tempts  him,  he  doubles  it  again.  What,  then,  is  La 
Grenadiere  worth,  with  that  flight  of  steps,  the  sunken 
path,  the  triple  terrace,  the  two  acres  of  vineyard,  those 
balustrades,  those  roses,  the  portico,  its  pump,  the 
wealth  of  tangled  clematis  and  the  cosmopolitan  trees? 
Ofler  no  price.  La  Grenadiere  cannot  be  bought.  Sold 
once  in  1690  for  forty  thousand  francs,  and  left  with 
bitter  regret,  as  the  Ar.ib  of  the  desert  abandons  a 
favorite  horse,  it  still  remains  in  the  same  family,  of 
which  it  is  the  pride,  the  patrimonial  jewel,  the  Regent 
diamond.  To  see  is  not  to  have,  saith  the  poet.  From 
these  terraces  you  see  three  valleys  of  Touraine  and  the 
cathedral  suspended  in  ether  like  a  delicate  filagree. 


310  La   Girenadiere. 

Can  you  pay  for  such  treasures?     Could  you  buy  the 
health  you  will  recover  beneath  those  lindens? 

In  the  spring  of  one  of  the  finest  ^-ears  of  the  Restora- 
tion, a  lad}',  accompanied  hy  a  maid  and  two  children, 
came  to  Tours  in  search  of  a  house.  She  saw  La 
Grenadiere  and  hired  it.  Perhaps  the  distance  that 
separated  it  from  the  town  decided  her  to  take  it.  The 
salon  was  her  bed-chamber ;  she  put  each  child  in  one 
of  the  rooms  on  the  upper  floor,  and  the  maid  slept  in 
a  little  chamber  above  the  kitchen.  The  dining-room 
became  the  living-room  of  the  little  family.  The  lady 
furnished  the  house  very  simply,  but  with  taste  ;  there 
was  nothing  useless  and  nothing  that  convej'ed  a  sense 
of  luxury.  The  furniture  was  of  walnut,  without  orna- 
ment. The  neatness,  and  the  harmonj'  of  the  interior 
with  the  exterior  made  the  charm  of  the  house. 

It  was  difficult  to  know  whether  Madame  Williamson 
(that  was  the  name  the  lady  gave)  belonged  to  the  rich 
bourgeoisie,  or  to  the  upper  nobility,  or  to  certain 
equivocal  classes  of  the  feminine  species.  Her  sim- 
plicit}'  of  life  gave  grounds  for  contradictory  supposi- 
tions, though  her  manners  seemed  to  confirm  the  most 
favorable.  It  was,  therefore,  not  long  after  her  arrival 
at  Saint-C3'r  that  her  reserved  conduct  excited  the 
curiosity  of  idle  persons,  who  had  the  provincial  habit 
of  remarking  upon  everything  that  promised  to  enliven 
the  narrow  sphere  in  which  they  lived. 


La   Orenadiere.  811 

Madame  Williamson  was  rather  tall,  slij!;ht  and  thin, 
but  (lelirHtely  made.  She  had  pretty  feet,  more  re- 
markalde  for  the  {^niee  with  whieli  they  were  joint-d  to 
the  ankles  than  lor  llnir  narrowness,  —  a  vulgar  merit. 
Her  hands  were  handsome  when  gloved.  A  certain 
redness,  that  seemed  movable  and  rather  dark  in  tone, 
disfigured  her  white  skin,  whieh  was  naturally  fair  ami 
ros}'.  Premature  wrinkles  had  aged  a  brow  that  was 
flne  in  shape  and  crowned  with  beautiful  aulnirn  hair, 
always  braided  in  two  strands  and  wound  around  the 
head,  —  a  maidenly  fashion  which  became  her  melan- 
choly face.  Her  black  eyes,  sunken  in  dark  circles  and 
full  of  feverish  ardor,  assumed  a  calmness  that  seemed 
deceptive  ;  for  at  times,  if  she  forgot  the  expression  she 
imposed  upon  them,  they  revealed  some  secret  anguish. 
Her  oval  face  was  rather  long,  but  perhaps  in  other 
days  happiness  and  healtli  ma}-  have  rounde<l  its  out- 
lines. A  deceptive  smile,  full  of  gentle  sadness,  was 
ever  on  her  pallid  lips,  but  the  eyes  grew  animated,  and 
the  smile  expressed  the  delights  of  maternal  love  when 
the  two  children,  by  whom  she  was  always  accomiianied, 
looked  at  her  and  asked  those  idle  and  endless  questions 
which  have  their  meaning  to  a  mother's  heart. 

Her  walk  was  slow  and  dignified.  She  wore  but  one 
style  of  dress,  with  a  constancy  that  showed  a  deliberate 
intention  to  take  no  further  interest  in  personal  adorn- 
ment, and  to  forget  the  world,  by  which,  no  doubt,  she 


312  La   Grenadicre. 

wished  to  be  forgot.  Her  gown  was  black  and  very- 
long,  fastened  round  the  waist  with  a  watered  ribbon, 
and  over  it,  in  guise  of  a  shawl,  was  a  cambric  kercliief 
with  a  broad  hem,  the  ends  passed  negligentl}'  through 
her  belt.  Her  shoes  and  her  black  silk  stockings  be- 
trayed the  elegance  of  her  former  life,  and  completed 
the  conventional  mourning  that  she  always  wore.  Her 
bonnet,  always  of  the  same  English  shape,  was  gray  in 
color  and  covered  with  a  black  veil. 

She  seemed  very  weak  and  ill.  The  only  walk  she 
took  was  from  La  Grenadiere  to  the  bridge  of  Tours, 
where,  on  a  calm  evening  she  would  take  the  two 
children  to  breathe  the  cool  air  from  the  river  and 
admire  the  effects  of  the  setting  sun  upon  a  landscape 
as  vast  as  that  of  the  Bay  of  Naples  or  the  Lake  of 
Geneva.  During  the  time  she  lived  at  La  Grenadiere 
she  went  but  twice  to  Tours,  — once  to  ask  the  principal 
of  the  college  to  direct  her  to  the  best  masters  of 
Latin,  mathematics,  and  drawing ;  and  next  to  arrange 
with  the  persons  thus  designated  the  price  of  their  in- 
structions, and  the  hours  at  which  her  sons  could  take 
their  lessons.  But  it  sufficed  to  show  herself  once  or 
twice  a  week  on  the  bridge  in  the  evening,  to  rouse  the 
interest  of  nearl}'  all  the  inhaljitants  of  the  town,  who 
made  it  their  habitual  promenade. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  harmless  sp3'ing  which  the 
dreary  leisure  and  uneasy  curiosity  of  provincial  towns 


La  Qrenadiire.  813 

forces  upon  their  leading  societies,  no  real  information 
as  to  the  unknown  \iu\\,  her  rank,  h«T  fortune,  or 
even  her  present  condition,  was  obtained.  The  owmr 
of  La  Grcnadiere  did,  however,  tell  some  of  his  friends 
the  name  (and  it  was  no  doiiht  a  tnu-  one)  under  wliich 
slie  hud  taken  tlie  lease.  She  gave  it  as  "AugusUi  Wil- 
liamson, Countess  of  Brandon."  The  name  was  doubt- 
less that  of  her  husband.  The  later  events  of  her 
history  confirmed  this  statement ;  but  it  was  never 
made  public  be3ond  the  little  world  of  merchants 
frequented  by  the  owner. 

So  Madame  "Williamson  continued  a  mysterj*  to  the 
leading  societ}-  of  Tours,  and  all  that  she  allowed  them 
to  discover  was  her  simple  maimers,  delightfully  natu- 
ral, her  personal  distinction,  and  the  tones  of  an  an- 
gelic voice.  The  complete  solitude  in  which  she  lived, 
her  melancholy,  and  her  beauty  so  cruelly  obscured 
and  even  faded,  charmed  the  minds  of  a  few  3*oung 
men,  who  fell  in  love  with  her.  But  the  more  sincere 
the}-  were,  the  less  bold  they  became  ;  moreover,  she 
was  so  imposing  that  it  was  difficult  to  address  her. 
When  one  or  two,  more  courageous  than  the  rest, 
wrote  to  her,  Madame  Williamson  put  their  letters 
unopened  into  the  fire.  She  seemed  to  have  come  to 
this  enchanting  retreat  to  abandon  herself  wholly  to 
the  pleasure  of  living  there.  The  three  masters  who 
were  admitted  to  La  Grcnadiere  spoke  with  respectful 


814  La   Crrenadiere. 

admiration   of  the   close    and   cloudless    union   which 
bound  the  children  and  the  mother  in  one. 

The  children  also  excited  a  great  deal  of  interest, 
and  no  mother  ever  looked  at  them  without  envy. 
Both  resembled  Madame  Williamson,  who  was  really 
their  mother.  Each  had  a  bright,  transparent  com- 
plexion and  high  color,  clear,  limpid  eyes,  long  eye- 
lashes, and  the  purity  of  outline  which  gives  such 
brilliancy  to  the  beauties  of  childhood.  The  eldest, 
named  Louis-Gaston,  had  black  hair,  and  a  brave, 
intrepid  eye.  Everything  about  him  denoted  robust 
health,  just  as  his  broad,  high  forehead,  intelligently 
rounded,  foretold  an  energetic  manhood.  He  was  brisk 
and  agile  in  his  movements,  a  strapping  lad,  with 
nothing  assuming  about  him,  not  easily  surprised,  and 
seeming  to  reflect  on  all  he  saw.  His  brother,  named 
Marie-Gaston,  was  very  fair,  though  a  few  locks  of 
his  hair  were  beginning  to  show  the  auburn  color 
of  his  mother's.  He  had  also  the  slender  figure,  the 
delicate  features,  and  the  winning  grace  so  attractive 
in  Madame  Williamson.  He  seemed  sicklj*,  his  gray 
eyes  had  a  gentle  look,  his  cheeks  were  pale ;  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  the  woman  about  him.  His  mother 
still  kept  him  to  embroidered  collars,  long  curls,  and 
those  pretty  jackets  with  frogged  fastenings  which 
are  worn  with  so  pleasing  an  effect,  and  which  betray 
a  feminine  love  of  dress. 


La   Grenndiere.  3ir> 

This  dftinty  attire  contrastc*!  with  the  plain  jacket 
of  the  elder  brother,  over  which  the  plain  linen  collar 
of  his  shirt  was  turned.  The  trousers,  boots,  and 
color  of  the  clothes  were  the  same  in  the  two  brothers, 
and  proclaimed  their  relationship  as  much  as  did  their 
physical  likeness.  Seeing  them  together,  it  was  im- 
possible not  to  be  struck  with  the  care  which  Louis 
took  of  Marie.  The  look  he  gave  him  was  paternal ; 
and  Marie,  in  spite  of  his  childlike  heedlessness, 
seemed  full  of  gratitude  to  his  brother.  These  two 
little  flowers,  scarcely  apart  on  the  same  twig,  were 
shaken  b}'  the  same  breezes  and  wanned  b}-  the  same 
sun-ra}' ;  but  while  one  was  \igorous  and  ros}*,  the 
other  was  half-etiolated.  A  word,  a  look,  an  inflection 
of  the  voice  sufBced  to  catch  their  attention,  to  make 
them  turn  their  heads  and  listen,  hear  an  order,  a 
request,  a  suggestion,  and  obey.  Madame  Williamson 
made  them  understand  her  wishes  and  her  will  as  though 
there  were  but  one  thought  among  them. 

When  they  were  running  or  playing  before  her  in 
their  walks,  gathering  a  flower,  examining  an  insect, 
her  eyes  rested  upon  them  with  such  deep  and  tender 
emotion  that  the  most  indifferent  observers  were 
touched ;  sometimes  they  even  stopped  to  watch  the 
smiling  children,  and  saluted  the  mother  with  a 
friendly  glance.  Who,  indeed,  would  not  have  ad- 
mired   the    exquisite    nicety   of   their   garments,   the 


316  La   Grenadiere. 

pretty  tones  of  their  voices,  the  grace  of  their  move- 
ments, their  happ}'  faces,  and  that  instinctive  nobility 
which  told  of  careful  training  from  their  cradles? 
Those  children  seemed  never  to  have  wept  or  screamed. 
The  mother  had  an  almost  electric  sense  of  their  wishes 
and  their  pains,  and  she  calmed  them  or  forestalled 
them  ceaselessly.  She  seemed  to  dread  a  plaint  from 
her  children  more  than  eternal  condemnation  for  her- 
self. All  things  in  and  about  them  were  to  her  honor ; 
and  the  picture  of  their  triple  life,  seeming  one  and 
the  same  life,  gave  birth  to  vague,  alluring  visions  of 
the  joys  we  dream  of  tasting  in  a  better  world. 

The  domestic  life  of  these  harmonious  beings  was  in 
keeping  with  the  ideas  their  outward  appearance  con- 
veyed ;  it  was  orderly,  regular,  and  simple,  as  became 
a  home  where  children  were  educated.  The  two  boys 
rose  early,  by  daybreak,  and  said  a  short  pra3'er,  taught 
them  in  infancj',  —  true  words  said  for  seven  years  on 
their  mother's  bed,  begun  and  ended  b}'^  two  kisses. 
Then  the  brothers,  trained  to  that  minute  care  of  the 
person  so  essential  to  health  of  body  and  purity  of 
soul,  dressed  themselves  as  carefully  as  a  pretty  woman 
might  have  done.  They  neglected  nothing,  so  fearful 
were  they  of  a  word  of  blame,  however  tenderly  their 
mother  might  utter  it,  —  as,  for  instance,  when  she  said 
at  breakfast  one  morning,  "  My  dear  angels,  how  did 
you  get  your  nails  so  black  already  ?  " 


J 


L(i   Grenadicre.  .".17 

After  (Ircssiiiij,  the  p.-iir  would  <^o  down  into  tlio 
g:u(U'U  and  Hlmke  oil'  tlio  hi'tivincss  of  Ww  \\v^\\\,  in  its 
dewy  freshiu'ss,  whik*  wiiiting  for  the  servant  to  put  in 
order  the  dining-room,  where  the}*  studied  their  lessons 
till  lluir  niulher  wuke.  IWit  fnun  time  to  time  they 
peeped  and  listened  to  find  out  if  she  were  awake, 
though  forbidden  to  enter  the  room  before  a  given 
hour;  and  this  daily  irrui)lion,  made  in  defiance  of  a 
compact,  was  a  delightful  niomenl  both  to  tliem  and  to 
their  mother.  Marie  would  jump  upon  the  bed  and 
throw  his  arms  about  his  idol,  while  Louis,  kneeling 
beside  the  pillow,  held  her  hand.  Then  followed  tender 
inquiries  like  those  of  a  lover,  angelic  laughter,  caresses 
that  were  i)assionate  and  pure,  elocjuent  silence,  words 
hall-uttered,  childish  stories  interrupted  by  kisses,  begim 
again,  always  listened  to,  seldom  finished. 

"  Have  you  studied  your  lessons?"  the  mother  would 
Bay,  in  a  gentle  voice,  ready  to  pity  idleness  as  a  mis- 
fortune, but  readier  still  with  a  tearful  glance  for  the 
one  who  could  say  he  had  done  his  best.  She  knew 
those  children  desired  only  to  satisfy  lier ;  they  knew 
she  lived  onl}'  for  them,  —  that  she  led  them  by  the 
wisdom  of  love  and  gave  them  all  her  thoughts  and  all 
her  time.  A  marvellous  instinct,  which  is  neither  rea- 
son nor  egotism,  which  we  may  juTliaps  call  sentiment 
in  its  first  sincerity,  teaches  children  whether  they  are 
or  are  not,  the  object  of  exclusive  care,  and  whether 


318  La   Grrenadiere. 

others  find  happiness  in  caring  for  them.  Do  j-ou 
truly  love  them?  then  the  dear  creatures,  all  frankness 
and  all  justice,  are  delightfully  grateful.  They  love 
passionately  and  jealously ;  they  possess  the  sweetest 
delicacy,  they  can  find  the  tenderest  words  ;  they  confide 
to  you,  they  trust  to  you  in  all  things.  Perhaps  there 
are  no  bad  children  without  bad  mothers,  for  the 
afllection  children  feel  is  always  in  reply  to  that  they 
receive,  to  the  first  caress  given  to  them,  to  the  first 
words  they  have  heard,  to  the  first  looks  from  which 
they  have  sought  for  love  and  life.  At  that  period  all 
to  them  is  attraction  or  repulsion.  God  has  put  children 
in  the  womb  of  the  mother  to  teach  her  that  she  must 
bear  them  long. 

And  yet  we  find  some  mothers  cruelly  misunderstood 
by  their  children ;  we  see  sublime  maternal  tenderness 
constantlj'  wounded  b}'  horrible  ingratitude  and  neg- 
lect, —  showing  how  diflHcult  it  is  to  lay  down  absolute 
principles  in  matters  of  feeling. 

In  the  heart  of  this  mother  and  in  those  of  her  sons 
no  one  of  the  thousand  ties  which  could  attach  them  to 
one  another  was  missing.  Alone  on  earth  they  lived  a 
united  life  and  understood  each  other.  When  Madame 
Williamson  was  silent  the  boys  said  nothing,  respectful 
even  to  the  thoughts  they  could  not  share.  But  the 
elder,  gifted  with  a  mind  that  was  already  strong,  was 
never  satisfied  with  his  mother's  assurances  that  her 


.^ 


La  Orenadicre.  819 

health  was  good;  he  studied  lur  face  with  sih-nt  un- 
easiness, unaware  of  danger,  yet  loieljuding  it  wlien  he 
noticed  the  purple  tinta  round  the  sunken  eyes  and 
saw  that  the  hollows  deepened  and  the  red  patches  ou 
the  face  grew  more  inflamed.  Full  of  true  perception, 
when  he  thought  that  his  brother's  games  were  begin- 
ning to  tire  her  he  would  say,  "  Come,  Marie,  let's  go 
and  breakfast ;  I  'm  hungry." 

But  when  he  reached  the  door  he  would  turn  back  to 
catch  the  expression  on  his  mother's  face,  which  always 
wore  a  smile  for  him,  though  sometimes  tears  would  start 
from  her  eyes  as  a  gesture  of  her  boy  revealed  his  exqui- 
site feeling,  his  precocious  comprehension  of  her  sorrow. 

The  mother  was  always  present  at  the  lessons  which 
took  place  from  ten  to  three  o'clock,  interrupted  at 
midday  by  the  second  breakfast,  generally  taken  in  the 
garden  pavilion.  After  this  meal  came  a  play-hour, 
when  the  happy  mother,  the  unhai)p3-  woman,  lay  on  a 
8ofa  in  the  pavilion,  whence  she  could  see  that  sweet 
Touraine,  incessantly  changing,  ceaselessly  rejuvenated 
b}'  the  varying  accidents  of  light  and  sky  and  season. 

The  boys  ran  about  the  place,  climbing  the  terraces, 
chasing  the  lizards,  themselves  as  agile  ;  the}'  watched 
the  seeds,  and  studied  the  insects  and  the  flowers,  run- 
ning constantly  to  their  mother  with  questions.  Children 
need  no  playthings  in  the  country ;  the  things  about 
them  arc  amusement  and  occupation  enough. 


320  La   Grenadiere. 

During  tlie  lessons  Madame  Williamson  sat  in  the 
room  with  her  work  ;  she  was  silent  and  never  looked 
at  either  masters  or  pupils,  but  she  listened  attentively 
to  catch  the  meaning  of  the  words  and  know  if  Louis 
were  understanding  them,  and  whether  his  mind  were 
acquiring  force.  If  he  interrupted  his  master  with  a 
question,  that  was  surely  a  sign  of  progress  ;  then  the 
mother's  eyes  would  brighten,  she  smiled,  and  gave  the 
bo3'  a  look  fall  of  hope.  She  exacted  very  little  of 
Marie  ;  all  her  anxiety  was  for  the  elder,  to  whom  she 
showed  a  sort  of  respect,  employing  her  womanly  and 
motherly  tact  to  lift  his  soul  and  give  him  a  high  sense 
of  what  he  should  become.  Behind  this  course  was  a 
hidden  purpose  which  the  child  was  one  day  to  compre- 
hend —  and  he  did  comprehend  it.  After  each  lesson 
she  inquired  carefullj'  of  the  masters  what  they  thought 
of  Louis's  progress.  She  was  so  kindly  and  so  winning 
that  the  teachers  told  her  the  truth  and  showed  her  how 
to  make  Louis  work  in  directions  where  they  thought 
him  wanting. 

Such  was  their  life,  uniform  but  full,  —  a  life  where 
work  and  play,  cheerfullj'  mingled,  left  no  opening  for 
ennui.  Discouragement  or  anger  was  impossible,  the 
mother's  boundless  love  made  all  things  easy.  She 
had  taught  her  sons  discretion  by  refusing  nothing  to 
them  ;  courage,  b}'  awarding  them  just  praise  ;  resig- 
nation, by  showing  them  its  necessity  under  all  cir- 


La   Grenadiere.  321 

cumstanccs.  She  developed  and  strengthened  the 
angelic  nature  withhi  thoni  witli  the  care  of  a  guard- 
ian angel.  Sometimes  a  few  tears  would  moisten  her 
e^es,  when,  watehing  thorn  at  play,  the  thought  came 
that  they  had  never  caused  her  a  moment's  griif. 
She  spent  delightful  hours  lying  on  her  rural  couch, 
enjoying  the  fine  weather,  the  l)road  sheet  of  water, 
the  picturesque  country,  tlie  voices  of  her  children, 
their  merry  laughs  rippling  into  frcsii  laughter,  and 
their  little  disputes,  which  only  evidenced  their  union, 
and  Louis's  fatherly  care  of  Maiic,  and  the  love  of  both 
for  her. 

The}'  all  spoke  French  and  English  equally  well,  and 
the  mother  used  both  languages  in  conversing  with  her 
boys.  She  ruled  them  by  kindness,  —  hiding  nothing, 
but  explaining  all.  She  allowed  no  false  idea  to  gain 
a  lodgment  in  their  minds,  and  no  mistaken  principle 
to  enter  their  hearts.  "When  Louis  wished  to  read  she 
gave  him  books  that  were  interesting  and  yet  sound, 
true  to  the  facts  of  life,  —  lives  of  famous  sailors,  bio- 
graphies of  great  men,  illustrious  captains  ;  finding  in 
such  books  the  occasions  to  explain  to  him  tlie  world 
and  life,  to  show  him  the  means  by  which  obscure 
persons  who  had  greatness  within  their  souls,  coming 
from  the  lower  walks  of  life  and  without  friends,  had 
succeeded  in  rising  to  noble  destinies. 

Such  lessons  she  gave  him  in  the  evening,  when 
21 


322  La   Qrenadiere. 

Marie,  tired  with  his  play,  was  sleeping  on  her  knees 
in  the  cool  silence  of  a  beauteous  night,  when  the 
Loire  reflected  the  heavens.  But  they  increased  her 
secret  sadness,  and  ended  often  in  leaving  her  ex- 
hausted, thoughtful,  and  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"  Mother,  why  do  you  cr}'?"  asked  Louis,  one  rich 
June  evening,  just  as  the  half-tints  of  a  softly-lighted 
night  were  succeeding  a  warm  day. 

"My  son,"  she  answered,  winding  her  arm  around 
the  neck  of  the  boj',  whose  concealed  emotion  touched 
her  deepl}^,  "because  the  hard  lot  of  Jameray  Duval, 
who  reached  distinction  without  help,  is  the  fate  I  have 
brought  on  you  and  your  brother.  Soon,  my  dear  child, 
you  will  be  alone  in  the  world,  with  no  one  to  lean 
on,  no  protector.  I  am  forced  to  leave  j^ou,  still  mere 
children ;  and  yet  I  think  that  you,  my  Louis,  know 
enough,  and  are  strong  enough  to  be  a  guide  to  Marie. 
I  love  you  too  well  not  to  suffer  from  such  thoughts. 
God  grant  3'ou  may  not  some  day  curse  me." 

"  Why  should  I  curse  you,  mother?" 

"  Some  day,  my  child,"  she  answered,  kissing  his 
brow,  "  3'ou  will  realize  that  I  have  done  you  wrong. 
I  abandon  you,  here,  without  means,  without  fortune, 
without"  —  she  hesitated  —  "without  a  father,"  she 
added. 

Tears  choked  her  voice  ;  she  gently  pushed  her  son 
away  from  her,  and  he,  understanding   by  a  sort  of 


La   Grenadiere.  323 

intuition  that  she  wished  to  ho  alono,  carried  the 
sleeping  Marie  away  with  him.  An  hcnn-  l:it»r,  when 
his  brother  was  in  bed,  Louis  returned  with  eautious 
steps  to  the  pavilion  where  his  mother  was  still  lying. 
He  heard  her  call,  in  a  voice  that  sounded  sweetly  on 
his  ear,  — 

"Louis,  come  !  " 

The  bo}'  flung  himself  into  his  mother's  arms,  and 
they  kissed  each  other  almost  convulsively. 

"Dearest,"  he  said,  for  he  often  gave  her  that  name, 
finding  even  that  too  feeble  to  express  his  tenderness, 
"  dearest,  why  do  you  fear  that  you  will  die?  " 

"  I  am  very  ill,  my  poor  loved  angel,"  she  said.  "  I 
grow  weaker  daily ;  my  disease  is  incurable,  and  I 
know  it." 

"  What  disease  is  it?" 

"  I  must  forget ;  and  you,  30U  must  never  know  the 
cause  of  m}'  death." 

The  child  was  silent  for  a  moment,  glancing  furtively 
at  his  mother  whose  eyes  were  raised  to  heaven,  watch- 
ing the  clouds.  Moment  of  tender  melancholy  !  Louis 
did  not  believe  in  his  mother's  approaching  death,  but 
he  felt  her  griefs  without  understanding  them.  He 
respected  her  long  revery.  "Were  he  less  a  child  he 
might  have  read  upon  that  sacred  face  thoughts  of 
repentance  mingled  with  happy  memories,  — the  whole 
of  a  woman's  life  ;  a  careless  girlhood,  a  cold  marriage, 


324  La   Grenadiere. 

a  terrible  passion,  flowers  born  of  a  tempest,  hurled  by 
the  lightning  to  the  depths  of  that  abyss  from  which 
there  is  no  return. 

"  'My  precious  mother,"  said  Louis  at  last,  "  why  do 
30U  hide  3'our  sufferings  from  me ? " 

"My  son,"  she  answered,  "we  should  always  hide 
our  troubles  from  the  eyes  of  strangers,  and  show  to 
them  a  smiling  face  ;  we  should  never  speak  to  others 
of  ourselves,  but  think  only  of  them.  Those  things,  if 
we  practise  them  in  our  homes,  will  make  others  happy. 
Some  day  you,  too,  will  suffer  deeply.  Then  remember 
your  poor  mother,  who  died  before  3'our  e^'es  hiding 
her  griefs,  and  smiling  for  you  ;  it  will  give  you  courage 
to  bear  the  woes  of  life." 

Smothering  her  feelings,  she  tried  to  show  her  boy 
the  mechanism  of  existence,  the  just  value,  the  ground- 
work, and  the  stability  of  wealth ;  the  power  of  social 
relations  ;  the  honorable  means  of  amassing  mone^^  for 
the  wants  of  life  ;  and  the  necessity  of  education.  Then 
she  revealed  to  him  one  cause  of  her  sadness  and  her 
tears,  and  told  him  that  on  the  morrow  of  her  death  he 
and  Marie  would  be  destitute,  possessing  only  a  trifling 
sum  of  money,  and  with  no  other  protector  than  God. 

"  What  haste  I  must  make  to  learn !  "  cried  the  bo}', 
glancing  at  his  mother,  with  a  deep,  3'et  plaintive  look. 

"Ah,  I  am  happy!"  she  exclaimed,  covering  her 
son  with  tears  and  kisses.     "He  has  understood  me! 


La   Qrenadlvre.  32') 

Louis,"  she  added,  "  yoii  will  ho  your  brother's  guard- 
ian, will  you  not?  you  promise  me?  You  are  no  longer 
a  child." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  promise;  but  you  will  not 
die  yet?     Say  you  will  not!  " 

"Poor  children!"  she  said,  "  mj'  love  for  you  de- 
tains me  ;  and  this  country  is  so  beautiful,  the  air  is  so 
reviving,  perhaps  —  " 

"  I  shall  love  Touraine  more  than  ever  now,"  said 
the  lad,  with  emotion. 

From  that  da}'  Madame  Williamson,  foreseeing  her 
end,  talked  to  her  eldest  son  of  his  future  lot,  Louis, 
•who  had  now  completed  his  fourteenth  jcar,  became 
more  thoughtful,  applied  himself  better,  and  cared  less 
for  play.  Whether  it  were  that  he  persuaded  Marie  to 
read,  instead  of  caring  only  for  games  of  pla}-,  it  is  certain 
that  the  two  boys  made  much  less  noise  in  the  sunken 
paths  and  in  the  terraces  and  gardens  of  La  Grcnadiere. 
They  conformed  their  life  lo  the  sad  condition  of  their 
mother,  whose  face  grew  paler  day  by  da}',  with  yellow 
tints,  the  lines  deepening  night  after  night 

In  the  month  of  August,  six  months  after  the  arrival 
of  the  little  family,  all  was  changed  at  La  Grcnadiere. 
The  pretty  house,  once  so  gay,  so  lively,  had  grown 
sad  and  silent,  and  its  occupants  seldom  left  the  prem- 
ises. Madame  Williamson  had  scarcely  strength  to 
•walk   to   the   bridge.     Louis,  whose   imagination   had 


326  La   Grenadiere. 

suddenl}'  developed,  aud  who  had  now  identified  himself, 
as  it  were,  with  his  mother,  guessing  her  weariness, 
invented  pretexts  to  avoid  a  walk  w^hicli  he  felt  was  too 
long  for  her.  Happy  couples  passing  along  tlie  road  to 
Saint-Cyr  and  the  groups  of  pedestrians  below  upon  the 
levee  saw,  in  the  warm  evenings,  the  pale,  emaciated 
woman  in  deep  mourning,  near  her  end  jet  still  brilliant, 
pacing  like  a  phantom  along  the  terraces.  Great  suffer- 
ings are  divined.  Even  the  cottage  of  the  vine- dresser 
became  silent.  Sometimes  the  peasant  and  his  wife 
and  children  were  grouped  about  their  door,  Fann}',  the 
old  English  servant,  would  be  washing  near  the  well, 
Madame  Williamson  and  her  boys  sitting  in  the  pavilion, 
and  yet  no  sound  was  heard  in  the  once  gay  gardens, 
and  all  ej'es  turned,  when  the  dying  woman  did  not  see 
them,  to  contemplate  her.  She  was  so  good,  so  thought- 
ful for  others,  so  worthy  of  respect  from  all  who  ap- 
proached her ! 

Since  the  beginning  of  the  autumn,  which  is  always 
fine  and  brilliant  in  Toui-aine,  and  which,  with  its  bene- 
ficent influences,  its  fruits,  its  grapes,  did  somewhat 
prolong  the  mother's  Hfe  beyond  the  natural  term  of 
her  hidden  malady,  she  had  thought  of  nothing  but  her 
children,  and  rejoiced  over  every  hour  she  had  them 
with  her  as  though  it  were  her  last. 

From  the  month  of  June  to  the  month  of  September 
Louis  studied  at  night  without  his  mother's  knowledgce 


La   Grenadiere.  827 

and  made  enormous  progress ;  ho  was  alrcntly  in  tho 
equations  of  the  second  degree  in  ulgrhru,  hail  Icarnt-d 
dcscnptive  geometry,  and  drew  adniiral)ly  well.  He 
was,  in  fact,  prepared  to  pass  an  entrance  examination 
to  the  Ecole  Polyteehnique.  Occasionally  in  l\w  even- 
ings he  went  to  walk  on  the  bridge  of  Tours,  where  he 
bad  met  a  lieutenant  of  the  navy  on  half-pay  ;  the 
manl}'  face,  the  decorated  breast,  the  hearty  bearing  of 
tliis  sailor  of  the  Empire,  aft'ected  his  imagination.  The 
lieutenant,  on  the  other  hand,  took  a  fancy  to  the  lad 
whose  eyes  sparkled  with  energy.  Louis,  eager  for 
militar}'  tales  and  liking  to  ask  questions,  walked  about 
with  the  old  salt  and  listened  to  him.  The  lieutenant 
had  a  friend  and  companion  in  an  infantry  colonel ; 
young  Gaston  could  therefore  hear  of  the  two  lives, 
military  and  naval,  life  in  camp  and  life  on  seaboard, 
and  he  questioned  the  two  oflicers  incessantly. 

After  a  time,  entering  into  their  hard  lot  and  their 
rough  experience,  he  suddenly  asked  his  mother  for 
permission  to  roam  about  the  canton  to  amuse  himself. 
As  the  astonished  masters  had  told  Madame  Williamson 
that  her  son  was  studying  too  hard,  she  acceded  to  his 
request  with  extreme  pleasure.  The  bo}'  took  immense 
walks.  Wishing  to  harden  himself  to  fatigue  he  climbed 
the  highest  trees  with  agility,  he  learned  to  swiu),  and 
he  sat  up  working  at  night.  lie  was  no  longer  the 
same  child  ;  he  was  a  young  man,  on  whose  face  the  sun 


328  La  Grenadiere. 

had  cast  its  brown  tones,  bringing  out  the  lines  of  an 
ah-eady  deep  purpose. 

The  month  of  October  came,  and  Madame  Williamson 
could  rise  only  at  midday,  when  the  sun-rays,  reflected 
from  the  Loire  and  concentrated  on  the  terraces,  pro- 
duced the  same  equable  warmth  at  La  Grenadiere  that 
prevails  on  warm,  moist  days  around  the  Bay  of  Naples, 
—  a  circumstance  which  leads  physicians  to  recommend 
Touraine.  On  such  da^^s  she  would  sit  beneath  an 
evergreen,  and  her  sons  no  longer  left  her.  Studies 
ceased,  the  masters  were  dismissed.  Children  and 
mother  wished  to  live  in  one  another's  hearts,  without  a 
care,  without  distractions  from  the  outside.  No  tears 
were  shed,  no  happy  laughter  heard.  The  elder,  lying 
on  the  grass  beside  his  mother,  was  like  a  lover  at  her 
feet,  which  he  sometimes  kissed.  Marie,  restless  and 
uneasy,  gathered  flowers,  which  he  bi'ought  to  her  with 
a  sad  air,  rising  on  tiptoe  to  take  from  her  lips  the  kiss 
of  a  3'oung  girl.  That  pallid  woman  with  the  large 
black  ej'es,  lying  exhausted,  slow  in  all  her  motions, 
making  no  plaint,  smiling  at  her  two  children  so  full  of 
health,  so  living,  was  indeed  a  touching  spectacle  amid 
the  melancholy  glories  of  autumn,  with  its  yellowing 
leaves,  its  half-bared  trees,  the  softened  light  of  the  sun 
and  the  white  clouds  of  a  Touraine  sky. 

The  day  came  when  Madame  Williamson  was  ordered 
by  the  doctor  not  to  leave  her  room.     Daily  it  was 


La   Grenadiere.  829 

adorned  with  the  flowers  she  loved  best,  find  lior  rliil- 
dreii  stayed  there.  Early  in  Novcnihi-r  she  opened  her 
piano  for  the  last  time.  A  Swiss  landscape  hnn;;  al>ovc 
it.  Beside  the  window  the  brothers,  with  their  arms 
around  each  other,  showed  licr  their  niinirled  heads. 
Her  eyes  moved  constantly  from  her  children  to  the 
landscape,  from  the  landscape  to  her  children.  Her 
face  colored,  her  fingers  ran  with  passion  along  the 
ivory  notes.  It  was  her  last  fete,  a  fete  hidden  from 
others,  a  fete  celebrated  in  the  depths  of  her  soul  by 
the  genius  of  memory. 

The  doctor  came  and  bade  her  keep  her  bed.  The 
sentence  was  received  by  her  and  b}-  her  sons  in  a 
silence  that  was  almost  stupid. 

When  the  physician  went  away  she  said:  "Louis, 
take  me  on  the  ten'ace  that  I  may  see  the  country  once 
more." 

At  these  words,  simply  said,  the  lad  gave  her  his  arm 
and  took  her  to  the  centre  of  the  terrace.  There  her 
eyes  sought,  involuntarily  perhaps,  the  heavens  rather 
than  the  earth  ;  it  would  have  been  difficult  at  tliat 
moment  to  sa}'  where  was  the  finer  landscape,  for  the 
clouds  represented  vaguely  the  majestic  glaciers  of  tlie 
Alps.  Her  brow  contracted  violently,  her  eyes  took 
an  expression  of  remorse  and  sorrow,  she  caught  the 
hands  of  her  children  and  pressed  them  to  her  beating 
heart. 


330  La   G-renadiere. 

"  Father  and  mother  unknown  !  "  she  cried,  casting 
an  agonized  look  upon  them.  "Poor  children!  what 
will  become  of  3'ou?  And  when  you  are  men,  what 
stern  account  will  yoxx  not  demand  of  me  for  my  life 
and  yours?" 

She  pushed  her  children  from  her,  placed  both  elbows 
on  the  balustrade,  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  re- 
mained for  a  few  moments  alone  with  her  soul,  fearing 
to  be  seen.  When  she  roused  herself  from  her  grief 
she  saw  Louis  and  Marie  kneeling  beside  her  like  two 
angels ;  they  watched  her  looks  and  both  smiled  at 
her. 

"  Could  I  but  take  those  smiles  with  me  !  "  she  said, 
drying  her  ej'es. 

She  returned  to  the  house  and  went  to  her  bed,  to 
leave  it  no  more  until  they  placed  her  in  her  coffin. 

Eight  days  went  by,  each  day  like  the  rest.  The  old 
waiting- woman  and  Louis  took  turns  to  watch  that  bed 
at  night,  their  ej^es  fixed  on  the  patient.  It  was  the 
same  drama,  profoundly  tragic,  which  is  played  at  all 
hours  and  in  all  families  where  they  dread  that  every 
breath  may  be  the  last  of  some  adored  member.  On 
the  fifth  day  of  this  fatal  week  the  doctor  proscribed 
flowers.  One  by  one  the  illusions  of  life  were  taken 
from  her. 

After  that  day  Louis  and  Marie  found  fire  beneath 
their  lips  when  they  kissed  their  mother's  bi'ow.     At 


La   Grenadiere.  331 

last,  on  the  Saturday  night,  she  could  bear  no  noise,  and 
ht-r  room  was  left  in  disorder.  That  necessary  nej^lect 
nuukod  the  beginning  of  the  death  of  this  woman,  once 
so  fastidious,  so  enamoured  of  elegance.  Louis  no 
longer  left  her  even  for  a  moment 

During  the  night  of  Sunday,  in  the  midst  of  deepest 
silence,  Louis,  who  thought  her  dozing,  saw  by  the 
light  of  the  lamp  a  white,  moist  hand  put  back  the 
curtain. 

"My  son,"  she  said. 

The  tones  of  the  dying  woman  were  so  solemn  that 
their  power,  proceeding  from  her  troubled  soul,  reacted 
violently  on  her  child  ;  he  felt  a  burning  heat  in  the 
marrow  of  his  bones. 

"  AVhat  is  it,  mother?" 

"  Listen  to  me.  To-morrow  all  will  be  over.  We 
shall  see  each  other  no  more.  To-morrow  you  will  be 
a  man,  my  child.  I  am  obliged  to  make  certain  ar- 
rangements which  must  remain  a  secret  between  you 
and  me.  Take  the  key  of  my  little  table.  You  have  it? 
Open  the  drawer.  You  will  find  on  the  left  two  sealed 
papers.   On  one  is  marked  Louis,  on  the  other,  Mauie." 

"  I  have  them,  mother." 

"  My  darUng  son,  they  are  the  legal  records  of  your 
birth,  of  great  importance  to  you.  Give  them  to  my 
poor  old  Fanny,  who  will  take  care  of  them  for  you,  and 
return  them  to  you  when  needed.     Now,"  she  continued, 


832  La   Grenadiere. 

"  look  again  in  the  same  place  and  see  if  there  is  not 
another  paper  on  which  I  have  written  a  few  lines?" 

"  Yes,  mother." 

And  Louis  began  to  read :  "  Marie  Augusta  William- 
son, horn  at —  " 

"  That  will  do,"  she  said  quickly,  "  Don't  go  on.  My 
son,  when  I  am  dead,  give  that  paper  also  to  Fanny  and 
tell  her  to  take  it  to  the  ma3'or's  office  at  Saint-Cyr, 
where  they  will  need  it  to  draw  up  the  record  of  my 
death.  Now  bring  what  3'ou  require  to  write  a  letter 
at  m}'  dictation." 

When  she  saw  that  her  son  was  ready  and  that  he 
turned  to  her  as  if  to  listen,  she  said,  in  a  calm  voice, 
dictating:  "Sir,  your  wife.  Lady  Brandon,  died  at 
Saint-Cyr,  near  Tours,  department  of  the  Indre-et-Loire. 
She  forgave  you.     Sign  it  —  " 

She  stopped,  hesitating  and  agitated. 

"  Do  you  feel  worse?  "  asked  Louis. 

"  Sign  it,  '  Louis  Gaston.' " 

She  sighed,  then  continued:  "Seal  the  letter  and 
direct  it  to  '  The  Earl  of  Brandon,  Brandon  Square, 
Hj-de  Park,  London,  England.'  Have  you  written  it? 
Very  good,"  she  said.  "  On  the  da}^  of  my  death  you 
must  mail  that  letter  from  Tours.  Now,"  she  continued, 
after  a  pause,  "  bring  my  little  pocket-book  —  yon  know 
it —  and  come  close  to  me,  dear  child.  In  it,"  she  said, 
when  Louis  had  returned  to  her,  "  are  twelve  thousand 


i 


La  Grenadiere.  883 

francs.  They  arc  rightfully  ^'ours,  alas !  You  would 
have  had  far  more  had  your  fatluT  —  " 

"  My  father!  "  exelaiiucd  the  lad,  "  where  is  he?" 

"  Dead,"  she  replied,  laying  a  finger  on  her  lips,  — 
"dead  to  save   my  honor  and  my  life." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven  ;  she  would  have  wept 
had  she  still  had  tears  for  sorrows  "  Louis,"  she  said, 
"  swear  to  me  on  this  pillow  that  you  will  forget  all  that 
you  have  written,  and  all  that  I  have  said  to  you." 

"  Yes  mother." 

"  Kiss  me,  dear  angel." 

She  made  a  long  pause  as  if  to  gather  courage  from 
God,  and  to  limit  her  words  to  the  strength  that  was 
left  to  her. 

"  Listen,"  she  said  at  last  "  These  twelve  thousand 
francs  are  your  whole  fortune ;  you  must  keep  them 
upon  your  person,  because  when  I  am  dead,  the  legal 
authorities  will  come  here  and  put  seals  on  everything. 
^Nothing  will  belong  to  you,  not  even  your  mother. 
Poor  orphans!  all  you  can  do  is  to  go  away  —  God 
knows  w  here.  I  have  provided  for  Fanny  ;  she  will 
have  three  hundred  francs  a  year  and  stay  in  Tours. 
But  what  will  j'ou  do  with  yourself  and  your  brother?" 

She  raised  herself  in  the  bed  and  looked  at  the  brave 
boy,  who,  with  great  drops  on  his  forehead,  pale  from 
emotion,  his  eyes  half-veiled  in  tears,  stood  erect 
before  her. 


334  La   G-renadiere. 

"Mother,"  he  replied  in  a  deep  voice,  "I  have 
thought  of  it.  I  shall  take  Marie  to  the  college  of 
Tours.  I  shall  give  ten  thousand  francs  to  old  Fanny 
and  tell  her  to  put  them  in  safety,  and  to  watch  over  my 
brother.  Then,  with  the  rest,  I  will  go  to  Brest,  and 
enter  the  navy  as  an  apprentice.  While  Marie  is  get- 
ting his  education  I  shall  be  promoted  lieutenant. 
Mother,  die  easy ;  I  shall  be  rich ;  I  will  put  our  boy 
into  the  Ecole  Poly  technique,  and  he  shall  follow  his 
bent." 

A  flash  of  joy  came  from  the  half-quenched  ej'es  of 
the  mother  ;  two  tears  rolled  down  her  burning  cheeks  ; 
then  a  great  sigh  escaped  her  lips.  She  barely  escaped 
djing  at  that  moment  from  the  joy  of  finding  the  soul 
of  the  father  in  that  of  her  son,  now  suddenly  trans- 
formed into  a  man. 

"Angel  from  heaven!"  she  said,  weeping,  "j'ou 
have  healed  my  sorrows  with  those  words.  Ah !  I  can 
die  now.  He  is  my  son,"  she  added;  "I  have  made, 
I  have  trained,  a  man." 

She  raised  her  hands  in  the  air  and  clasped  them,  as 
if  to  express  a  boundless  joy  ;  then  she  lay  back  on  the 
pillows. 

"  Mother,  you  are  turning  white,"  cried  the  bo3^ 

"  Fetch  a  priest,"  she  answered,  in  a  dying  voice. 

Louis  woke  old  Fanny,  who  ran  in  terror  to  the 
parsonage  of  Saint-Cj'r. 


La   Grenadiere.  335 

Early  in  llu'  morning  l^Inchuno  Williainson  received 
the  sacraments  in  presence  of  her  children,  with  ohl 
Fanny,  and  the  family  of  the  vine-dresser,  simple  folk, 
now  part  of  the  family,  kneeling  round  her.  The  silver 
cross  borne  by  a  humble  choir  boy,  a  village  choir  boy  ! 
was  held  before  the  bed  ;  an  old  priest  administered 
the  viaticum  to  the  dying  mother.  The  viaticum  !  sub- 
lime word,  idea  more  sublime  than  the  word,  which  the 
apostolic  religion  of  the  Roman  Church  alone  employs. 

"This  woman  has  sulfered  much,"  said  the  curate 
in  his  simple  language. 

Madame  "Williamson  heard  no  longer ;  but  her  eyes 
remained  fastened  on  her  ciiildren.  All  present,  in 
mortal  terror,  listened  in  the  deep  silence  to  the 
breathing  of  the  dying  woman  as  it  slackened  and 
grew  slower.  At  intervals,  a  deep  sigh  showed  that 
life  was  still  continuing  the  inward  struggle.  At  last, 
the  mother  breathed  no  longer.  Those  present  wept, 
excepting  Marie,  too  young,  poor  child,  to  be  aware 
of  death.  Fanny  and  the  vinc-dresser's  wife  closed 
the  eyes  of  the  once  exquisite  creature,  whose  beauty 
reappeared  in  all  its  glory.  They  sent  away  those 
present,  took  the  furniture  from  the  room,  placed  the 
body  of  the  departed  in  its  shroud,  lighted  the  wax- 
tapers  around  the  bod,  arranged  the  basin  of  holy 
water,  the  branch  of  box,  and  the  crucifix,  after  the 
manner  of  that  region  of  country,   closed  the  blinds 


336  La  Grenadiere. 

and  drew  the  curtains.  Then  the  vicar  came  and 
passed  the  night  in  praj-er  with  Louis,  who  would 
not  leave  his  mother. 

The  funeral  took  place  Tuesday  morning  ;  old  Fanny, 
the  children,  and  the  vine-dresser  alone  followed  the 
bod}'  of  a  woman  whose  beauty,  wit,  and  grace  had 
given  her  in  other  daj's  a  European  fame ;  and  whose 
funeral  would  have  been  pompouslj'  heralded  in  the 
newspapers  of  London,  as  an  aristocratic  solemnit}', 
had  she  not  committed  a  tender  crime,  a  crime  always 
punished  on  this  earth,  perhaps  to  allow  the  pardoned 
angel  to  enter  heaven.  When  the  earth  fell  on  his 
mother's  coffin,  Marie  wept,  comprehending  then  that 
he  should  see  her  no  more. 

A  simple  wooden  cross  stands  above  her  grave  and 
bears  these  words,  given  by  the  curate  of  Saint-Cyr. 

HERE  LIES 

A   SORROWFUL  WOMAN. 

SHE   DIED    AGED    THIRTY-SIX, 

Beaking  the  name  Augusta  in  Heaven. 
Pray  for  her. 

When  all  was  over  the  children  returned  to  La 
Grenadiere  to  cast  a  last  look  upon  their  home  ;  then, 
holding   each   other  b}^   the   hand,    they  prepared    to 


La   Grenadiere.  837 

leave  it  with  Fanny,  making  the  vinc-drcsscr  rcHjwn- 
sible  to  the  aiitlioritics. 

At  the  Inst  inomiMit  the  old  waiting-woman  callicl 
Louis  to  the  steps  of  the  w«ll,  and  said  to  him  apart : 

"  Monsieur  Louis,  here  is  mndame\s  ring." 

The  boy  wopt,  —  moved  at  tiie  sij^ht  of  a  living  monio- 
rial  of  his  dead  niotlicr.  In  iiis  strong  sclf-coinniand 
he  had  forgotten  tiiis  last  duty.  He  kissed  the  old 
woman.  Then  all  three  went  down  the  sunken  path- 
way, and  down  the  flight  of  stops,  and  on  to  Tours 
without  once  looking  back. 

"  Mamma  used  to  stand  here,"  said  Marie,  when  they 
reached  the  bridge. 

Fanny  had  an  old  cousin,  a  rotirod  dressmaker, 
living  in  the  rue  de  la  Ciuerehc.  There  she  took  the 
lads,  thinking  they  could  all  live  together.  But  Louis 
explained  his  plans,  gave  her  Marie's  certificate  of 
birth  and  the  ten  thousand  francs,  and  the  next  day, 
accompanied  by  the  old  woman,  he  took  his  brother 
to  the  school.  lie  told  the  priueii)al  the  facts  of  the 
case,  but  very  briefly,  and  went  away,  tiiking  his 
brother  with  him  to  the  gate.  There  he  tenderly  and 
solemnl}'  told  him  of  their  loneliness  in  the  world  and 
gave  him  counsel  for  the  future,  lookt'il  at  him  silently 
a  moment,  kissed  him,  looked  at  him  again,  wiped 
away  a  tear,  and  went  awav,  looking  back  again  and 
again  at  his  brother,  left  alone  at  the  college  gate. 
_  22 


338  Xa   Grrenadiere. 

A  month  later  Louis  Gaston  was  an  apprentice  on 
board  a  government  ship,  leaving  the  Rochefort  roads. 
Leaning  against  the  shrouds  of  the  corvette  "  Iris,"  he 
watched  the  coasts  of  France  as  they  dropped  below 
the  blue  horizon.  Soon  he  saw  himself  alone,  lost  in 
the  midst  of  ocean,  as  he  was  in  the  midst  of  life. 

"Mustn't  cry,  young  fellow;  there 's  a  God  for  all 
the  world,"  said  an  old  seaman,  in  his  gruff  voice,  both 
harsh  and  kind. 

The  lad  thanked  him  with  an  intrepid  look.  Then 
he  bowed  his  head  and  resigned  himself  to  a  sailor's 
life,  for  —  was  he  not  a  father? 

1832. 


BALZAC     IN     ENGLISH. 


COUSIN    PONS. 


"  It  is  late  in  tlie  day  to  xpeak  of  the  genius  of  Kalzac,  but  it  is  wnrth  while  to 
eommeiid  the  reader  to  the  admirable  translation  of  a  number  of  hit  works 
issued  by  an  American  firm  of  publishers.  Ihc  work  of  Misi  Wornieley,  whoM 
name  does  not  appear  upon  the  titltpanc,  but  who  is  said  to  be  the  translator,  it 
deserving  of  the  hinhest  praise,  llal/at's  intensely  idiomatic  French,  as  well  a* 
his  occasional  treatment  of  recondite  subjects,  and  his  frequent  elucidation  of 
complic.ited  business  transactions,  render  the  translation  of  his  works  difficult ;  but 
the  present  translator  has  turned  the  original  into  clear  and  fluent  Knglish,  read* 
ing  not  at  all  like  a  translation,  yet  preserving  Halzac's  vigorous  and  characteristic 
style.  It  is  not  only  the  best  translation  of  lialtac  which  we  have,  —  whicli  would 
not  be  high  praise,  since  English  versions  of  his  novels  have  hitherto  been  few  .md 
fragmentary,  —  but  one  of  the  most  excellent  translations  of  any  Krench  author 
which  we  have  met.  The  publishers  have  laid  the  American  readers  under 
obligation  both  by  undertaking  the  enterprise  of  presenting  I'.alzac  in  an  Kngli%h 
dres.s,  and  by  their  selection  of  a  translator ;  and  it  is  most  desirable  that  they 
should  complete  the  work  so  well  befyin  by  putting  within  the  reach  of  Knglish- 
speaking  readers  the  remainder  of  that  marvellous  body  of  fiction,  Tht  Comidu 
Humaine." —  The  thurch  Revietv. 

"  ■  Cousin  Pons'  is  the  latest  translation  in  the  Baliac  series  now  being  issued 
by  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston.  It  is  a  strong  story  of  Iriendship  and  of  greed.  To 
all  intents  and  purposes  the  narrative  indicates  a  complete  and  perfect  triumph  of 
vice  over  virtue  ;  but  vice  is  painted  in  such  hideous  colors,  and  virtue  is  >hown  in 
such  effulgent  beauty,  as  to  make  the  moral  well-nigh  awe-inspiring.  Balz.ic  does 
not  stay  the  natural  course  of  events.  He  permits  each  character  to  work  out  its 
own  results,  and  then  makes  the  impression  desired  by  comparative  methods.  In 
thi.s,  as  in  all  his  works,  the  wonderful  writer  manifests  a  familiarity  with  the 
ethics  of  life  which  has  gained  for  him  the  eternal  remembrance  and  gratitude 
of  all  readers;  and  it  is  f.iir  to  presume  that  the  Balzac  now  being  translated  and 
published  by  the  Roberts  Brothers  will  revive  his  name  and  bring  .igain  to  his 
feet  the  worid  of  English-speaking  people."  —  S/iritigJiflti  Kepuhtuan. 

"The  last  translation  from  Balzac  brought  out  by  Roberts  Brothers  in  their 
new  and  beautiful  edition  is  one  of  the  fainous  Frenchman's  most  original  stories. 
It  is,  in  fact,  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  and  origmal  novels  ever  written,  and 
only  the  mind  of  a  genius  could  have  conceived  such  a  peculiar  plot.  The  heroine 
of  the  novel  —  for  whom  the  principal  character  sacrifices  his  comfort,  his  pleasure, 
and  indeed  his  life;  for  whom  many  other  characters  in  the  book  sacrifice  their 
honor  :  and  around  whom  all  the  excitement  and  interest  centres — is,  strangely 
enough,  not  a  woman  ;  and  yet  this  heroine  calls  forth  the  most  ardent  and 
passionate  devotion  a  man  is  capable  of,  and  her  intluence  is  elevating  and  not 
degrading.  The  manner  in  which  a  mania  of  any  kind  can  absorb  a  man,  body 
and  soul,  is  wonderfully  brought  out  in  'Cousin  Pons;'  for  the  heroine  of  the 
book  is  a  collection  of  curios. 

"Those  who  have  formed  a  hasty  judgment  of  Balzac  from  reading  the  'Duchesse 
de  Langeais'  would  do  well  to  read  'Cousin  Pons.'  Balzac  sees  and  depicts 
virtue  as  perfectly  as  vice,  and  it  is  his  faculty  of  describing  beauty  as  well  as 
ugliness  which  has  made  him  famous.  The  delicacy  of  perception  which  enabled 
him  to  perceive  and  describe  every  shade  of  feeling  in  '  Cousin  Pons '  and  to 
appreciate  the  nobility  of  Schmucke's  character  is  the  chief  characteristic  of 
genius.  The  re.-ider  must  read  all  the  '  Scenes  from  Parisian  Lite  '  to  have  any 
full  conception  of  Balzac's  greatness.  His  breadth  of  vision,  his  dramatic  power, 
his  searching  analysis  of  the  most  transient  emotions,  and  his  quick  perceptions  of 
beauty,  are  all  evident  in  "Cousin  Pons.'  It  is  an  interesting,  exciting  novel,  a 
perfect  piece  of  literary  execution,  and  a  story  which  is,  if  sad,  neither  coarse  nor 
immoral."  —  Boston  Transcript.  ^ 

One  handsome  i2ino  volume,  uniform  with  "  Pcre  Goriot," 
"  Duchesscde  Langeais,"  "  Cesar  Birotteau,"  "  Eugenie  Grandet." 
Bound  in  half  morocco,  French  style.     Price,  $1.50. 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS,   Publishers,  Boston. 


BALZAC  IN  ENGLISH. 

The  Magic  Skin. 

(LA   PEAU    DE    CHAGRIN.) 

TRANSLATED  BY 

KATHARINE    PRESCOTT    WORMELEY. 


"The  Magic  Skin  "  is  a  great  novel, — great  in  its  conception,  great  in  its 
execution,  and  great  in  the  impression  it  leaves  upon  the  reader's  mind.  Those 
who  deny  that  Balzac  is  a  moral  teacher  will  retract  their  opinion  after  reading  this 
powerful  allegory.  It  is  a  picturesque  representation  of  the  great  moral  truth  that 
m  life  we  have  to  pay  for  every  excess  we  enjoy.  In  the  gradual  shrinking  of  the 
"Magic  Skin"  we  see  the  inevitable  law  that  by  uncontrolled  dissipation  of  body 
or  mind  we  use  up  our  physical  strength  and  exhaust  our  vitality.  In  that  beauti- 
ful, cold,  fascinating  character,  Fedora,  the  writer  shows  us  the  glittering  world  of 
fashion  and  frivolity  which  men  pursue  vainly  and  find  to  their  cost  only  dust  and 
ashes.  In  the  gentle,  loving,  and  devoted  Pauline,  Balzac  represents  the  lasting 
and  pure  pleasures  of  domestic  life.  But  in  Raphael's  short  enjoyment  of  them 
we  see  the  workings  of  that  inflexible  law,  "  Whatever  ye  sow  that  shall  ye  also 
reap."  In  the  vivid,  striking,  realistic  picture  of  Parisian  life  which  Balzac  pre- 
sents to  us  in  "  The  Magic  Skin,"  the  writer  had  a  conscious  moral  purpose.  We 
know  of  no  more  awful  allegory  in  literature.  —  Boston  Transcript. 

The  story  is  powerful  and  original ;  but  its  readers  will  be  most  affected  by  its 
marvellous  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  the  deep-cutting  dissection  of  charac- 
ter which  makes  the  attempts  of  our  own  analytical  novelists  appear  superficial 
and  experimental.  Life  in  all  classes  of  the  Paris  of  Louis  Philippe's  time  is  por- 
trayed in  the  strongest  lights  and  shadows,  and  with  continual  flashes  of  wit, 
satire,  and  sarcasm  which  spare  neither  politician,  philosopher,  priest,  poet,  jour- 
nalist, artist,  man  of  the  world,  nor  woman  of  the  world.  Through  a  maze  of 
heterogeneous  personages  Raphael,  the  hero,  is  carried,  pursued  by  the  relentless 
Magic  Skin,  which  drives  him  mercilessly  to  his  doom.  The  vices  of  high  society 
are  laid  bare  ;  but  there  is  also  a  beautiful  exposition  of  purity  in  the  humble  life 
of  Pauline,  who  is  the  good  angel  of  the  story.  In  translating  "  La  Peau  de  Cha- 
grin" Miss  Wormeley  has  done  work  that  is  at  once  skilful  and  discreet.  It  is  a 
man's  book,  virile  though  not  vulgar,  and  exposing  prominences  in  French  social 
views  such  as  most  writers  veil  in  obscurities.  Here  all  is  frankly  and  honestly 
shown,  but  by  a  man  of  genius,  who  had  no  more  need  of  prudish  hypocrisy  than 
Shakespeare. 

Mr.  Parsons's  thoughtful  preface  is  a  fitting  introduction  to  the  most  wonder- 
ful of  all  Balzac's  romances.  It  is  not  a  whit  too  strong  for  Mr.  Parsons  to  write 
that,  saving  Shakespeare,  "no  man  could  have  been  belter  fitted  to  examine  men- 
tal processes,  to  gauge  their  effects,  to  estimate  their  significance,  and  to  define 
their  nature  and  scope  '  than  Balzac.  If  llalznc  had  been  a  German,  and  not  a 
Frenchman  of  the  French,  this  book  of  his  would  be  as  much  of  an  epoch-maker 
as  Goethe's  "  Faust."  It  may  take  years  before  the  fuller  appreciation  of  "  La 
Peau  de  Chagrin  "  comes,  but  it  is  a  study  of  life  which  will  be  studied  in  cen- 
turies yet  to  come.  —  New  York  Times- 


One  handsome  iimo  volume,  uniform  with  "  Pire  Goriot^''  "  The 
Duchesse  de  Langeais,'^  '^  Cesar  Birotteau,^'  "■Eugenie  Grandet,^' 
"  Cousin  Pojis,'"  "  77/1?  Country  Doctor,'^  "  The  Two  Brothers,'"  "  The 
Alkahest,"  and  '■' Modeste  Mignon.^'  Bound  in  half  m.orocco,  French 
style.     Price,  ^1.50. 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS,  Publishers, 

Boston. 


BALZAC    IN    ENGLISH. 


SONS  OF  THE  SOIL. 

Translated  by  Katharine  Preacott  Wormeley. 


Many  critics  have  regarded  "  Les  Paysans,"  to  which  Miss  Wormeley, 
in  her  admirable  translation,  has  given  the  title  "  Sons  of  the  Soil,"  as  one 
of  Balzac's  strongest  novels  ;  and  it  cannot  fail  to  impress  those  who  read 
this  English  rendering  of  it.  Fifty  or  sixty  years  ago  Balzac  made  a  pro- 
found study  of  the  effects  produced  by  the  Revolution  upon  the  peasants 
of  the  remote  provinces  of  France,  and  he  has  here  elaborated  these  obser- 
vations in  a  powerful  picture  of  one  of  those  strange,  disguised,  but  fero- 
cious  social  wars  which  were  at  the  time  not  only  rendered  possible,  but 
promoted  by  three  potent  influences,  namely,  the  selfishness  of  the  rich 
landholders ;  the  land-hunger  and  stimulated  greed  of  the  peasants ;  and 
the  calculated  rapacity  of  middle-class  capitalists,  craftily  using  the  hatreds 
of  the  poor  to  forward  their  own  plots.  The  first  part  of  "  Les  Paysans  " 
(and  the  only  part  which  was  published  during  the  author's  life)  appeared 
under  a  title  taken  from  an  old  and  deeply  significant  proverb,  Qui  a  terre 
a  guerre,  —  "  Who  has  land  has  war." 

It  is  the  account  of  a  guerilla  war  conducted  by  a  whole  country-side 
against  one  great  land-owner,  —  a  war  in  which,  moreover,  the  lawless 
aggressions  of  the  peasantry  are  prompted,  supported,  and  directed  by  an 
amazing  alliance  between  the  richest,  most  unscrupulons,  and  most  power- 
ful of  the  neighboring  provincial  magnates,  who,  by  controlling,  through 
family  council,  the  local  administration,  are  in  a  position  to  paralyze  resist- 
ance to  their  conspiracy.  The  working  out  of  this  deep  plot  affords  the 
author  opportunity  for  the  introduction  of  a  whole  gallery  of  marvellous 
Studies. 

It  is  perhaps  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  this  powerful  and  absorbing 
story  is  lifted  above  the  level  of  romance  by  the  unequalled  artistic  genius 
of  the  author,  and  that  it  is  at  times  almost  transformed  into  a  profound 
political  study  by  the  depth  and  acumen  of  his  suggestions  and  comments. 
Nor  should  it  be  requisite  to  point  out  analogies  with  territorial  conditions 
in  more  than  one  other  country,  which  lend  to  "  Les  Paysans  "  a  special 
interest  and  significance,  and  are  likely  to  prevent  it  from  becoming  obsolete 
for  a  long  time  to  come.  Of  the  translation  it  only  need  be  said  that  it  is 
as  good  as  Miss  Wormeley  has  accustomed  us  to  expect,  and  that  means 
the  best  rendering  of  French  into  English  that  has  ever  been  done.  — 
New  York  Tribune. 

Handsome  12mo  volume,  bound  in  half  Russia.  Price, 
$1.50. 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Publishers, 

BOSTON,  MASS. 


BALZAC     IN     ENGLISH 

LOUIS  Tambert. 


"As  for  Balzac,"  writes  Oscar  Wilde,  "he  was  a  most  remarkable  combination 
of  the  artistic  temperament  with  the  scientific  spirit."  It  is  his  artistic  tempera- 
ment which  reveals  itself  the  most  clearly  in  the  novel  before  us.  As  we  read 
"Louis  Lambert,"  we  feel  convinced  that  it  is  largely  autobiographical.  It  is  a 
psychical  study  as  delicate  as  Amiel's  Journal,  and  nearly  as  spiritual.  We  follow 
the  life  of  the  sensitive,  poetical  schoolboy,  feeling  that  it  is  a  true  picture  of  Bal- 
zac's own  youth.  When  the  literary  work  on  wliich  the  hero  had  written  for  years 
in  all  his  spare  moments  is  destroyed,  we  do  not  need  to  be  told  by  Mr.  Parsons 
that  this  is  an  episode  in  Balzac's  own  experience  ;  we  are  sure  of  this  fact  already ; 
and  no  writer  could  describe  so  sympathetically  the  deep  spiritual  experiences  of 
an  aspiring  soul  who  had  not  at  heart  felt  them  keenly.  No  materialist  could  have 
written  "  Louis  Lambert."  —  Boston  Transcrifit. 

Of  all  of  Balzac's  works  thus  far  translated  by  Miss  Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley, 
the  last  in  the  series,  "  Louis  Lambert,"  is  the  most  difficult  of  comjirehension. 
It  is  the  second  of  the  author's  Philosophical  Studies,  "The  Magic  Skin"  being 
the  first,  and  "  Seraphita,"  shortly  to  be  published,  being  the  third  and  last.  In 
"Louis  Lambert"  Balzac  has  presented  a  study  of  a  noble  soul — a  spirit  of 
exalted  and  lofty  aspirations  which  chafes  under  the  fetters  of  earthly  existence, 
and  has  no  sympathy  with  the  world  of  materialism.  This  pure-souled  genius  is 
made  the  medium,  moreover,  for  the  enunciation  of  the  outlines  of  a  system  of 
philosophy  which  goes  to  the  very  roots  of  Oriental  occultism  and  mysticism  as  its 
source,  and  which  thus  reveals  the  marvellous  scope  of  Balzac's  learning.  The 
scholarly  introduction  to  the  book  by  George  Frederic  Parsons,  in  addition  to 
throwing  a  great  deal  of  valuable  light  upon  other  phases  of  the  work,  shows  how 
many  of  the  most  recent  scientific  theories  are  directly  in  line  with  the  doctrines 
broadly  set  forth  by  Balzac  nearly  sixty  years  ago.  The  book  is  one  to  be  studied 
rather  than  read  ;  and  it  is  made  intelligible  by  the  extremely  able  introduction 
and  by  Miss  Wormeley's  excellent  translation.  —  Tke  Book- Buyer ■ 

"  Louis  Lambert,"  with  the  two  other  members  of  the  Trilogy,  "  La  Peau  de 
Chagrin"  and  "Seraphita,"  is  a  book  which  presents  many  ditficulties  to  the 
student.  It  deals  with  profound  and  unfamiliar  subjects,  and  the  meaning  of  the 
author  by  no  means  lies  on  the  surface.  It  is  the  study  of  a  great,  aspiring  soul 
enshrined  in  a  feeble  body,  the  sword  wearing  out  the  scabbard,  the  spirit  soaring 
away  from  its  prison-house  of  flesh  to  its  more  congenial  home.  It  is  in  marked 
contrast  to  the  study  of  the  destructive  and  debasing  process  which  we  see  in  the 
"  Peau  de  Chagrin."  It  stands  midway  between  this  study  of  the  mean  and  base 
and  that  noble  presentation  of  the  final  evolution  of  a  soul  on  the  very  borders  of 
Divinity  which  Balzac  gives  us  in  "  Seraphita." 

The  reader  not  accustomed  to  such  high  ponderings  needs  a  guide  to  place  him 
en  rapport  with  the  Seer.  Such  a  guide  and  friend  he  finds  in  Mr.  Parsons, 
whose  introduction  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  pages  is  by  no  means  the  least  valu- 
able part  of  this  volume.  It  is  impossible  to  do  more  than  sketch  the  analysis  of 
Balzac's  philosophy  and  the  demonstration  so  successfully  attempted  by  Mr.  Par- 
sons of  the  exact  correlation  between  many  of  Balzac's  speculations  and  the 
newest  scientific  theories.  The  introduction  is  so  closely  written  that  it  defies 
much  condensation.  It  is  so  intrinsically  valuable  that  it  will  thoroughly  repay 
careful  and  minute  study.  — From  "Light"  a  Londoti  Journal  of  Psychical  and 
Occult  Research,  March  9,1889. 

One  handsome  i2mo  volume,  uniform  with  ^'  Pire  Goriot"  "  The 
Duchesse  de  Langeais,''  "  Cesar  Birnffeati,'^  "  Eugenie  Grandet,^'' 
"  Cousin  Pons,''''  "  The  Country  Doctor."  "  The  Two  Brothers^''  "  The 
Alkahest"  "  Modeste  AIis;tton,"  "  The  Magic  Skin,"  "Cousin  Bette." 
Bound  in  half  morocco,  French  Style.     Price,  ^1.50. 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Publishers, 

Boston. 


BALZAC     IN     ENGLISH. 


THE    ALKAHEST; 

Or,  The  House  of  Claes. 


AmonR  the  novels  of  Honor^  de  Balzac  "  La  Recherche  de  I'Absolu  "  has 
always  cor.med  one  of  the  masterpieces.  The  terrible  dominion  of  a  fixed  idea 
was  never  shown  with  nmre  tremendous  force  than  is  depicted  in  the  absorption  of 
all  the  powers,  the  mind,  and  body  of  B.illh.izar  Claes  by  the  desire  to  discover 
the  Absolute,  the  "  Alkahest."  The  lovely  old  mansion  at  Dual,  its  sumptuous 
furniture,  its  priceless  pictures,  its  rare  bric-A-brac,  the  pyramid  of  costly  tulips 
th.it  glowed  in  the  garden,  are  painted  with  a  touch  rich  and  vivid,  which  shows 
Balzac  at  his  best.  This  great  novelist  was  always  minute  and  e.xhaustive  in  his 
descriptions;  but  in  this  story  the  material  in  which  he  worked  was  of  a  sort  to 
arouse  his  enthusi.ism,  and  he  evidently  revels  in  the  attractive  setting  which  its 
events  demand.     The  tale  itself  is  penetrating  and  powerlul.  —  Boston  Courier. 

The  "  Alkahest  "  is  a  strong  story,  and  all  through  it  is  to  be  felt  that  sub- 
current  of  vitalizing  energy  which  in  so  many  of  Balzac's  books  seems  to  pri  pe! 
the  principal  characters  as  in  a  special  atmosphere,  hurrying  them  with  a  kind  of 
fiery  yet  restranied  impatience  toward  the  doom  assigned  them.  .  .  .  The  scien- 
tific and  mystical  features  of  the  story  are  cleverly  handled.  Balzac  made  deep 
inquests  before  writing  his  philosophical  studies,  as  he  called  them,  and  he  wzs 
always  rather  ahead  than  abreast  of  the  thoughts  of  his  time.  The  central  prob- 
lem dealt  with  here  is,  of  course,  as  complete  a  mystery  to-day  as  when  the 
"  Recherche  de  I'Absolu  "  was  written.  .  .  .  Miss  Wormeley  has  made  a  charno 
teristically  excellent  translation  of  a  book  which  presents  many  unusual  diflficulties 
and  abstruse  points.  It  is  rarely  possible  to  assert  with  any  truth  that  an  English 
version  of  a  French  book  may  be  read  by  the  public  with  nearly  as  much  profit 
and  apprehension  as  the  original  ;  but  it  is  the  simple  fact  in  this  instance,  and  it 
is  certainly  remarkable  enough  to  deserve  emphasis.  — Kew  York  Trilruue. 

He  who  would  know  the  art  of  novel-writing  may  go  to  Balzac  and  find  an  art 
that  is  natural,  simple,  and  beautiful  in  its  exercise,  and  is  directed  to  both  thought 
and  feeling  in  behalf  of  humanity,  and  that  realizes  something  good  and  enduring. 
He  may  look  without  much  trouble  at  "  The  Alkahest ;  or.  The  House  of  Claes," 
one  of  the  most  illustrative  of  the  author's  method  and  aim,  and  excelling  in 
philosophical  analysis  and  in  philosophical  value. 

In  this  work  Balzac  has  opposed  the  heart  and  intellect  in  a  contest  amid  the 
conditions  of  social  life,  and  sought  to  reveal  their  comparative  nature  and  influ- 
ence, siding,  although  a  remarkable  example  himself  of  intellectual  development 
and  force,  in  favor  of  the  heart,  —  that  I  lemish  heart  which  is  ideal  of  all  that  is 
powerful  tor  good  and  happiness  in  domestic  life,  and  determines  Flemish  charac- 
ter so  strongly  that  the  qualities  of  that  character  impress  themselves  fixedly  in 
Flemish  painting  and  architecture  —  Sunday  Globe.  Boston. 

One  more  scene  in  Balzac's  wonderful  "  Comedy  of  Human  Life."'  It  is  "The 
Alkahest;  or.  The  House  of  Claes,"  the  greatest  of  the  "philosophical  studies." 
It  tells  of  the  mad,  persistent,  vain  endeavors  of  Balthazar,  a  scientist,  to  dis- 
cover the  Absolute.  Through  years  he  squanders  his  estate  in  fruitless  experi- 
ments. Ii  is  a  drama  that  slowly  chills  the  blood.  Then  comes  the  Jinaie. 
"  Suddenly  the  dying  man  raised  himself  by  his  wrists,  and  cast  on  his  frightened 
children  a  look  which  struck  like  lightning  ;  the  hairs  that  fringed  the  baid  head 
stirred,  the  wrinkles  quivered,  the  features  were  illumined  with  spiritual  fires,  a 
breath  passed  across  that  face  and  rendered  it  sublime.  He  raised  a  hand 
clenched  in  fury,  and  uttered  with  a  piercing  cr>'  the  famous  word  of  Archimedes, 
'Eureka!'  —  I  have  found."  It  is  the  way  Balthazar  found  the  Absolute.— 
Philadelphia  Press. 

One  handsome  izmo  volume,  uniform  with  " Pere  Goriot"  "  The 
Diichesse  de  Langeais,"  "  Cesar  Birotteau"  "  Eugenie  Grandet" 
"  Cousin  Pons,"  "  The  Coit7itry  Doctor"  and  "  The  Two  Brothers^ 
Bound  in  half  morocco,  French  style.     Price,  $1.50. 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Publishers,  Bo.«TOK. 


BALZAC    IN    ENGLISH. 


THE  TWO  BROTHERS. 


"  It  is  quite  possible  that  many  French  students  may  be  somewhat  puzzled  to 
encounter  that  story  of  Balzac's  which  they  have  always  known  under  the  title  of 
'  Un  Menage  de  Gargon,'  in  the  strange  and  unfamiliar  appellation  'The  Two 
Brothers.'  The  explanation  is  simple  enough,  and  it  is  interesting  as  illustrating 
one  of  Balzac's  peculiarities.  A  number  of  his  books  underwent  many  changes 
before  they  crystallized  permanently  in  the  edition  definitive.  Some  of  them  were 
begun  in  a  newspaper  or  review,  carried  along  some  distance  in  that  way,  then 
dropped,  to  appear  presently  enlarged,  altered,  'grown,'  as  is  said  of  children, 
'  out  of  knowledge.'  The  '  History  of  Balzac's  Works,'  by  Charles  de  Lovenjoul, 
gives  all  the  details  of  these  bewildering  metamorphoses.  The  first  title  of  the 
present  story  was  that  which  the  American  translator  has  selected,  namely,  '  Les 
deux  Freres.'  The  first  part  of  it  appeared  in  La  Presse  in  1841  with  this  desig- 
nation, and  in  1843  it  was  published  in  two  volumes  without  change  of  title.  The 
second  part  (now  incorporated  with  the  first)  appeared  in  La  Presse\n  1842,  under 
the  title  '  Un  Menage  de  Gargon  en  Province,'  and  figured  as  the  continuation  ol 
'  The  Two  Brothers  '  In  1843  the  two  parts  were  brought  together,  and  the 
■whole  published  as  '  Un  Menage  de  Gargon  en  Province.'  Balzac,  however,  was 
not  yet  satisfied.  Having  announced  yet  another  title,  namely,  '  Le  Bonhomme 
Rouget,'  he  abandoned  that,  cancelled  both  the  former  ones,  and  called  the  tale, 
in  the  definitive  edition  of  his  works,  '  La  Rabouilleuse,"  after  Flore  Brazier,  one 
of  the  characters  in  it.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Miss  Wormeley  has  chosen 
the  most  apposite  of  all  these  titles.  The  real  subject  is  the  career  of  the  two 
brothers,  Philippe  and  Joseph  Bridau."  —  New  York  Tribune. 

"  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers,  of  Boston,  have  added  to  the  excellent  translations 
they  have  already  publish  ed  of  several  of  Balzac's  most  famous  novels  a  translation 
of  '  The  Two  Brothers,'  which  forms  a  sequence  in  '  Scenes  from  Provincial  Life.' 
As  with  the  other  novels  that  have  preceded  it,  nothing  but  the  highest  praise  can 
be  awarded  the  work  of  the  translator.  Itgives  to  the  readerof  English  a  remark- 
able rendering  of  Balzac's  nervous,  idiomatic  French  ;  and  it  presents  the  novel- 
reader  a  novel  that  must  challenge  his  comparisons  with  the  popular  novels  of  the 
times.  One  cannot  read  far  in  Balzac's  pages  without  feeling  refreshed  by  contact 
with  a  vigorous  intellect.  In  this  story  he  attempted  to  display  two  opposite  types 
of  character  in  brothers,  which  had  been  inherited  by  them  from  different  ances- 
tors. In  order  to  do  this  effectively  he  introduces  in  a  few  opening  pages  these 
ancestors,  before  coming  to  the  real  action  of  the  story.  .  .  .  There  is  no  plot,  no 
intrigue,  no  aim  whatever  except  to  depict  the  characters  of  Joseph,  Philippe,  the 
mother,  and  the  immediate  friends  about  them.  All  this  is  done,  however,  with 
such  vivid  reality  that  it  fascinates  the  attention.  It  is  like  watching  an  artist  de- 
velop with  telling  colors  a  great  breathing,  living  picture.  It  is,  in  its  «'ay,  a  study 
of  evolution.  '  Perhaps  I  have  never  drawn  a  picture,'  said  Balzac,  in  reference 
to  the  book,  'that  shows  more  plainly  how  essential  to  European  society  is  the 
indissoluble  mamage  bond,  how  fatal  the  results  of  feminine  weakness,  how  great 
the  dangers  arising  from  selfish  interests  when  indulged  without  restraint.'  There 
are  many  Philippes  in  the  world  outside  of  France;  the  shrewd,  selfish,  swagger- 
ing Philippes  who  march  through  life  rough-shod,  regardless  of  kindred,  friends, 
or  foes.  Here  is  the  man  painted  to  the  life  for  all  time,  and  any  country.  Here 
also  is  the  woman,  with  all  her  simplicity  and  weakness,  who  always  and  ever  fails 
to  gauge  rightly  this  sort  of  man  ;  who  is  doomed  to  be  his  slave  and  victim. 
Balzac  met  them  in  his  Parisian  world  forty  years  ago,  and  here  they  take  their 
places  in  his  comedy  of  human  life.  While  there  are  such  strong  portraitures  in 
literature  as  these  novels,  it  is  not  easy  to  understand  how  so  many  weak,  flimsy, 
pretentious  ones  find  any  readers  at  all.  Let  us  have  Balzac  in  excellent  transla- 
tion by  all  means,  — all  that  remarkable  series  that  are  still  quite  as  good  as  new 
to  the  great  majority  of  the  English-speaking  people.''  —  Brooklyn  Citizen. 


One  handsmne  \2mo  volume,  tiniform  with  "  Pire  Goriot,^'  "  Tka 
Dtichesse  de  La7igeais'^  '^Cesar  ISirotteau,'"  '■'Eugenie  Grandet"  '•'■Cousin 
Pons,"  and  "  The  Country  Doctor.''''  Half  tnorocco.  French  style. 
Price-  $\.'^o, 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Publishers,  Boston. 


RETURN    CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

TO— ^    202  Main  Library 

LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2                                     3 

4 

5                                     6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

Renewals  and  Recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  the  due  date. 

Books  may  be  Renewed  by  catling        642-3405 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

:g 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
FORM  NO.  DD6                                 BERKELEY,  CA  94720             ^^ 

*♦•.      W  :V^- 


nrnKFlFYllBRARIf 


CD52b37bl3 


yf.-' 


796Ji44 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


